Miscalculation
by OodHappenings
Summary: A nice evening out together turns sinister when a stain from Sherlock's past resurfaces bent on destroying his future. Lead up and realization of relationship. Eventual smut. Warnings within.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This story, at some points, will contain depictions of violence and gore, along with mentions of sexual abuse and drug usage. These scenes will be marked at the top, and are done in a way as to depict them as tastefully as possible. I apologize if this is offensive to anyone, but I promise that the story as a whole will not dwell upon these points. **

John had just returned from his job at the clinic, to find his flat seemingly empty.

"Sherlock, I'm back," the doctor called, and was surprised to receive no answer. He checked his phone, again gaining no clue to his mysterious flat-mate's whereabouts.

That was unusual.

Sherlock rarely left the flat at all, and when he did he almost always told John or Mrs Hudson, if anything to drag them along.

"Sherlock?" John listened carefully this time.

There.

A faint tapping noise from outside the window. Outside the window? John rushed over to the sound to see Sherlock, in his dressing gown, sitting precariously on the edge of the fire escape.

The doctor shook his head and opened the window.

"Sherlock, what are you doing out here?"

The detective turned towards his blogger, his nose and cheeks red from the cold. "It was an experiment, obviously. Why else would I be sitting out here in the blasted cold in my dressing gown?"

The doctor looked around him and smirked. "Get locked out?"

The detective glared at him firmly, but said nothing.

"Come on then, in you get. I'll make some tea."

Sherlock crawled forward in the fire escape, pulling himself through the window. He stumbled slightly, his limbs numb from the cold.

John caught him, his hands resting gently around Sherlock's middle as he steadied the taller man.

There was a pause, the two of them frozen by the touch, before Sherlock pulled back and smoothed the wrinkles in his clothes.

"Tea?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

The doctor walked to the kitchen, trying to clear his head.

He and Sherlock had touched like that dozens of times before, so why would he react like this now? He set to work, filling the kettle and setting it to boil.

Sherlock watched John puttering around the kitchen curiously.

He had experienced a physical reaction to the blogger's touch, one that he couldn't place. His pulse had quickened, his breathing had become shallow. He was sure his pupils had dilated, and he had even felt a small reaction in his groin.

The signs were undeniable, yet the genius did not want to heed them. A physical relationship was something that he had never engaged in, never really considered engaging in. He knew the mechanics, sure, how the whole process worked in a varying number of scenarios. But all of his knowledge was theoretical.

Feelings, emotions, they were something that he had even less experience with. Yet there was something, a soft warmth in the pit of his stomach, when he thought of the doctor that he couldn't place.

The whistling of the kettle shook the detective from his thoughts abruptly, and he quickly flopped himself into his favourite chair.

John tried to remember his mother's word on how to make tea. 'A pinch per person and an extra to steep.'

He pulled the tin of tea leaves from the cupboard and groaned when he saw the severed fingers nestled in the tin.

Sighing, the doctor got out instead two tea bags from their container and tossed them into the mugs. He loathed the things, but any tea was better than no tea.

He heard the kettle whistle, followed by a thump from the living room. The doctor glanced over to see Sherlock sprawled over his chair, legs over one side and head over the other. He swallowed hard and set back to work, pouring the water into the cups and carrying the tray to the living room.

"Here you are then."

Sherlock glanced up at the doctor, and for a brief second, John swore that he saw Sherlock's mouth twitch at the corner. As quickly as it might have been there, it was gone.

"Thank you." Sherlock took his mug and sipped it, letting the warmth from the bitter drink spread through him.

"So, care to tell me how you managed to get yourself trapped on the fire escape?"

The detective glared at the doctor once more, but John could see the faintest of pink tingeing his cheeks. "A miscalculation. I assumed that our fire escape was actually functional. I did not anticipate its poor design."

John smirked again. "Care to share this grievous flaw?"

Sherlock could tell that John was teasing him, but he felt no anger towards the doctor. In fact, that warmth from before seemed to be spreading. Sherlock dismissed it to the tea.

"The latch in the ladder was rusted closed. I'll talk to Mrs. Hudson about it later."

John nodded. "That still doesn't explain why you couldn't just crawl back in through the window."

Sherlock swallowed another mouthful of tea, and looked at the doctor's hands. "It fell shut."

John chuckled and shook his head. "You forgot to prop it open."

Sherlock nodded and kept his gaze down.

John saw that Sherlock was obviously embarrassed. He nudged the detective's foot with his hand.

"Sherlock, it was an honest mistake."

The detective glanced up, his breath hitching slightly at the contact of John's hand.

"It was a careless oversight, one that I should not have made."

John nodded, knowing that Sherlock did not want his comfort. Against his better judgment, the doctor decided that the best thing to do was to change the subject.

"Why were you out there anyway?"

Sherlock sat up in the chair, swinging his legs around and knocking John's mug onto his lap. The doctor hissed as the hot liquid seeped through his trousers, and he leapt up, peeling off his trousers without a second thought. He used them to dab the liquid from his pants, not noticing how Sherlock had frozen in place, nor how the normally composed detective was gazing at him with glazed eyes.

"Geez, Sherlock, these were new."

The complaint drew Sherlock around, and he quickly set his own mug down on the table. "It's hardly my fault you couldn't keep your mug from dumping into your lap. Maybe if you sat normally."

John bristled, and folded his arms defensively across his chest.

"Me sit normally? I wasn't the one who was draped over his chair like a blanket."

The detective rolled his eyes. "You were slouching. If you would have been sitting in your chair properly, then my feet would not have knocked into your mug."

John scoffed and shook his head. "You are utterly incredible."

The doctor stomped off to his room, leaving an exasperated Sherlock in his wake.

The detective stood, still staring after the doctor, his head clouded by a flurry of thoughts. He stomped over to the mantle, pulling his box of nicotine patches and pulling five from the box. This was definitely a five patch problem.

John sat on the edge of his bed, flopping back and sighing. His flat mate was astounding.

One moment he made the doctor's heart flip in his chest, and the next he had his blood boiling. He glanced at the clock. 7:30. It was nearly dinner time. John knew that he should probably eat, and order some food for Sherlock as well, but he wasn't in the mood for food, and he really didn't want to face Sherlock either.

Sherlock. What was going on there? The doctor knew that he was developing feelings for the genius, but what kind? Could he honestly be falling for the man?

John rolled over and stuffed his face into his pillow. It was moments like this that make him miss the ones where he was getting shot at.

Sherlock's phone rang on the table. Lestrade. He ignored it.

The last thing that the detective wanted right now was a case. He needed to get to the bottom of his reactions to John, and figure out how to get rid of them.


	2. Chapter 2

They made it to the street without saying a word. John was subtly studying his detective, unsure of the whole situation. Sherlock hailed a cab, and the two men clambered in.

"Downtown," Sherlock said curtly, and the driver nodded.

John shook his head and turned to the detective. "Where are we going, Sherlock?"

The detective froze slightly, and then shrugged. "I don't know. But it's past the time you usually eat, and I know you haven't had anything."

The doctor's brow creased as he looked at the other man. Was Sherlock caring for him? That was new. Something nagged at the back of the doctor's mind. A memory that couldn't quite reach the surface.

"Food does sound nice, but why go out? We could have gotten a takeaway, or had Mrs Hudson fix something."

Sherlock looked curiously at the doctor. "She's not our house keeper."

John burst out laughing, and Sherlock grinned. Somehow, the other man's laughter warmed him, and the twinkling in John's eyes brought on a new wave of happiness.

"Alright, so we're going to dinner. Still doesn't explain why we couldn't just go to that Chinese place down the street."

Sherlock simply glanced out the window, and then tapped on the glass separating the driver from them. "Stop here."

John gave Sherlock a curious look, but didn't ask any questions as the car stopped. They got out and Sherlock paid the driver. John looked around at the flashing lights and busy streets that were so alive at night.

"There," Sherlock stated, pointing at a posh-looking restaurant. The kind of place where reservations would have to have been made months in advance simply to get a look in the window.

"Sherlock, there's no way we can afford that. Come on, I bet there's a nice diner or something around the bend—" Sherlock simply shook his head and took John by the hand. The doctor felt a sight blush creep across his cheeks at the contact, but didn't shake away from it. He allowed the detective to drag him to the door, only managing to breathe when Sherlock let him go. The concierge looked down his nose at John, who stood up a touch straighter and squared his shoulders.

"Reservation?" the man said dryly, a mild French accent curling around the word. John made to say that they didn't have one, but Sherlock's hand found its way onto his arm, stopping the words (and a good deal of thought with it).

"Holmes." The concierge's eyes grew slightly wider, and he nearly stumbled as he stepped out from behind the counter.

"Right this way, sirs. Your table is waiting." John followed the man with a touch of amazement as Sherlock peered around the room. They were settled into a very private booth that overlooked the entire restaurant without allowing a single eye to fall on them. The stylish black furnishings against the cool blue walls had a sparse yet inviting feeling. The doctor couldn't help but be awed. A waiter came around.

"What would you like to drink, sirs?"

John went to order, but again, Sherlock surprised him.

"Wine, red, I'll let you choose the year. And we already have our dinner orders." The waiter scrambled for a notepad, clearly unprepared. "I'll be having the Ratatouille, and John will be having the roast lamb with grilled vegetables." The waiter scribbled it down before scurrying off to the kitchen.

"Sherlock, you don't even know how much that's going to cost. And how did you know I'd want lamb?"

The detective smiled. "Your nostrils flared when you passed by a table with just that dish, indicating that you thought it smelled good. Giving your propensity for meat-filled dishes, I assumed it was a fitting choice."

John nodded, biting back saying something like 'you're bloody amazing, I hope you know'. He really hated to admit that he liked it when Sherlock "deduced" him.

"As for the price, we aren't paying," Sherlock added.

The doctor's brow furrowed slightly. "We aren't? What are you getting at? You didn't save the owner from a prison term or keep the chef from execution by foreign mercenaries, did you?"

Sherlock smirked, but shook his head. John couldn't help but notice how the light bounced off his curls.

"No, nothing like that. Mycroft loves to bring his counterparts here on occasion. This is his private table."

John chuckled softly. "You're incredible, you know that?" (So much for biting back that compliment earlier) The detective smirked again as his phone vibrated in his pocket.

That would be my dear brother now, he thought with a smirk.

What are you doing? – Mycroft Holmes

An experiment. – SH

From here it looks like you're on a date. – Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock glanced into the foliage behind John's head and saw the nearly microscopic camera hidden among the leaves.

If I say yes, will you give us some privacy? – SH

There was a pause in the messaging, and Sherlock saw the little green light on the camera shut off.

Have fun, then. Be safe. I assume you know the mechanics of what you're doing. – Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock swallowed thickly and glanced up at John. The waiter had returned with their wine.

Yes. – SH

The waiter placed two glasses before them, pouring wine in each before stepping back and bowing to them.

"So, is Mycroft pissed that we're using his private booth?"

Sherlock glanced up, and then shook his head. "No, he doesn't have an issue with it."

John nodded, even more perplexed. "Funny, I was under the impression that he hated me."

The detective sat up a bit, pocketing his phone. "I highly doubt that he hates you, John. He's always been a bit rough towards the people that associate with me. And you are a rather unique case."

John's ears pricked at that and he gingerly sipped his wine. "Why, because I'm your flat mate?"

Sherlock laid his hand on top of the older man's gently and watched as a delicate pink painted across his cheeks. "Because you're my friend."

The waiter returned then and John withdrew his hand with a cough. The food was placed on the table and Sherlock watched with interest as John's mind worked through what he had said.

And work it did. John was desperately trying untangle his thoughts. His mind was at war with itself. His doubt about his feelings toward Sherlock was quickly melting, but what was he to do with this information? Sherlock had made it very clear in the past that he didn't do relationships of any kind, yet here he was. They were having a surprise dinner at what Sherlock had stated as Mycroft's favoured date spot. And there was that memory, clawing at him now, something that he had said. Something about what a girlfriend does. It hit him then, square and unavoidable.

This was a date. An actual, proper date. Sherlock hadn't brought up a case, he hadn't mentioned murder, or made an ill comment. He was focusing completely on John, and that thought was enough to dislodge another puzzle piece. He wanted it. More than anything that he had ever wanted in the past, the doctor craved this final piece of the detective. He wanted his affections and his attention. He wanted Sherlock. John blinked back at the detective with fresh eyes.

"So I take it that you've managed to deduce what's going on here."

The doctor nodded and took another sip of his wine.

"Why now?" The doctor said softly. Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but the food arrived, interrupting the moment. John smiled his thanks to the waiter, and peered down at his meal. Sherlock poked at his food, more interested in observing than eating. John ate in silence, hastily devouring his food and avoiding Sherlock's piercing gaze.

"John, your food is not going to grow legs and run away. You don't have to attack it."

John glanced up and chuckled. "You're not eating," the doctor stated matter-of-factly. Sherlock shoveled a bite of the food into his mouth, chewing it slowly and then swallowing dramatically. The detective tried desperately not to notice the way Sherlock's throat moved, or the way the sauce tainted the detective's lips just a touch red.

"There, are you happy?"

John nodded dumbly, finishing the last bite of his lamb.

"Dessert?" Sherlock asked.

The doctor shrugged. "Would you eat that, at least?"

The detective narrowed his gaze, but the corner of his mouth twitched up into a brief smile. One that John noticed. It warmed the doctor ever so slightly.

"I may, under the right circumstances." John quirked an eyebrow, but waved down the waiter.

"What may I get you, sirs?" John's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he checked the message quickly, fearing it may be the hospital.

Sherlock has a weakness for fire. – Mycroft Holmes

John did a double take, shaking his head.

"I'll have the volcano cake," John said, and he noticed the glint that appeared in Sherlock's eye.

"And for you, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock shrugged, pushing his plate forward. "I think we'll share." The waiter glanced between them briefly, and then nodded, taking the plates from the table.

"Who was the message from?"

John shrugged. "Does it matter?"

Sherlock knotted his fingers under his chin, scanning the doctor's features for a clue. "It wasn't Sarah, as you're off duty, and you aren't rushing out of here to help with some emergency."

"Sherlock." John tried to stop the detective from his tirade.

"Your left cheek twitched slightly when you read the message, indicating that you found it humorous, but found that it was inappropriate to react given your current surroundings. That suggests that it was either vulgar, or it involved your current company."

John was struggling now. "Sherlock would you—"

"Considering that I'm your current company, and the fact that there was no discernible stressor, it was most likely about me. Which rules out your sister, as she loathed me, and your army buddies, who make a point not to mention me."

John stuttered for an answer, but found none.

"That leaves Lestrade, Mycroft, or Molly. Given that you read it twice, either to confirm the content or the sender, it was someone who you don't usually speak with. So that leaves Mycroft. Considering he is the only person that knows we're here, it was almost certainly him." John shook his head, biting back his usual 'brilliant'.

"Very good, you've figured that out."

The detective leaned back in his chair, eyeing the doctor suspiciously. "What I don't know is what he said."

The waiter arrived with the dessert, placing the chocolate cake on the table and setting it ablaze with a flourish. John clapped and grinned as the blue flames shot up, and Sherlock leaned in, mesmerized. The waiter bowed and left, leaving Sherlock to gaze at John.

"He didn't." John grinned teasingly and scooped some of the molten chocolate from the center and offered it to Sherlock. The detective glanced uncertainly at the spoon, unsure of what to do. John waved the spoon forward slightly, and Sherlock closed his mouth around it, swallowing the hot cream with a soft smile.

"Fire," John admitted a moment later.

Sherlock blinked, and then let out a short burst of rumbling laughter. "Fire. Really. Of all of the advice he could give you."

John scooped up another spoonful and offered it to the detective. Sherlock shook his head, but ate the proffered morsel anyway. "It seems to be working."

The detective's eyes seemed to spark and he leaned just a slight bit closer to the doctor.

"If I said that it was?"

John swallowed, his cheeks burning at the insinuations being made.

He sighed. "Answer my question first, the one from earlier."

The detective's brow furrowed, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Alright fine. Why now? Because I've come to a realisation."

John's eyes widened slightly. "Realisation of what?"

The detective shook his head. "I've answered your question, you have to answer mine."

The doctor rolled his eyes and took a bite of the cake to stall. "I, erm, what was the question again?"

Sherlock groaned. "You know how I loathe repeating myself." John simply sat there. "Very well. The question was, what would you do if I told you that you were being quite successful in your attempt at seducing me?"

The doctor nearly choked on his food. Sherlock paused, nearly afraid that he had miscalculated. That he had been wrong about John's feelings for him. But the red in the doctor's features and way he was shifting in his seat were enough to speak to the contrary.

"Keep in mind that, regardless of your answer, we are going home together."

The doctor swallowed. He couldn't remember when they had removed all the air from the room, but it was certainly gone now.

"I, well, Sherlock…" He tugged at the collar of his shirt. "I really don't know how to respond to that, Sherlock."

The detective tilted his head slightly. "Nothing you say will offend me, I assure you."

The doctor's blush deepened further. "I, well, erm, it's not something that is, well, I mean to say—"

Sherlock's eyes widened with sudden comprehension. "You don't know. This whole thing has taken you by surprise, and you've only just come to terms with the fact that you are amicable to it." The detective leaned back a touch, the slightest of distances. It was enough, however, to show the change his demeanor. He had gone from sultry to analytical.

"You're right, obviously." The shift in mood brought the doctor back around. "What I don't understand, as I have already said, is why. Why are you doing this? Why now?"

The stiffening of Sherlock's posture and the edge of his lips was just like when he was faced with a difficult question during a case, or a problem with an experiment.

Case. Experiment. Bloody hell.

Sherlock saw the way that John had stopped smiling, the way his mind was working. He knew that, while not as bright as he himself, John was still extraordinarily keen. He fidgeted.

"Case or experiment?"

Sherlock swallowed thickly. Caught.

"Which is it then? Part of a case, or an experiment?" The doctor didn't sound angry, as Sherlock thought he should, but hurt, pained. It tore at the detective, took his breath away.

"John," he said, his voice pleading.

"Either way, this is not okay." He threw his napkin onto the table roughly.

"John, please." Sherlock was near begging now. How could this have gotten so far from his control? Why was this hurting so much?

"No, Sherlock. I'm not going to be some test subject. Sorry if this ruined your plans." He was quiet, calm. Too quiet. Sherlock blinked, only to see that John was nearly out the door. He saw the doctor glance back at him, his eyes shining slightly, before shaking his head and walking away.


	3. Chapter 3

John walked swiftly through the streams of late-night travelers. He knew that he shouldn't be this upset. He knew that he should not have been crying. He knew that this was just Sherlock, yet it still hurt.

He chided himself.

"You should have known something was up the moment he mentioned food."

_**SHSHSHSHSH**_

Sherlock sat in the booth a full five minutes before he could comprehend what had happened. John had left, he had been upset that it was an experiment, and left. Left him alone. The exact opposite of what he had wanted. Sherlock stood abruptly, bustling out of the restaurant and into the street. He had to find John, he had to convince him to stay at Baker Street, to stay with him.

_**SHSHSHSHSH**_

John had somehow gotten irrevocably lost. Nothing looked familiar, no one looked friendly. He grew wary of the hooded figures brushing around him. The shadows of the run-down buildings, were barely softened by the street lights. He resisted the urge to call Sherlock, to have the detective come and get him. Suddenly there was another presence too close, and his soldier's instincts kicked in.

_**SHSHSHSHSH**_

Sherlock pulled out his phone, the temptation to text John nearly irresistible. As if on cue, it rang, Mycroft's condescending tone replaced with genuine concern.

"While I have a vague idea of what, exactly, you did to alienate Doctor Watson, you really need to consider that he has been kidnapped. The Yard is on their way to his last known location, but I seem to have lost him."

Sherlock's fists balled, his stomach rolling into knots. "Where was he last?" Sherlock croaked, his emotions roiling over.

"About twelve blocks to your east. At—" Sherlock hung up. He knew the exact location that someone would snatch John that was twelve blocks due east. He knew the alleyway, the number of bins in it, even the tendencies of its resident tomcat in the summer.

He sprinted down the street, knocking over pedestrians and dodging cars. He arrived to see exactly what he had prayed he wouldn't. Blood spattered the bricks and the pavement. Gunpowder residue hung in the air. The metallic tang of it burned Sherlock's eyes. He prayed to a deity he didn't believe in that John was alright. Emotions were set aside in favour of observing.

John had put up a fight, as was evident. Partial footprints dipped in blood outlined the struggle. It sickened him to think that the blood could be John's. A knife was kicked to the side, still coated in fresh blood. John doesn't carry a knife, so it must've been John who fired the gun then.

A soft smile curved his lips. At least that was a point in his favour.

The knife would have been used to disable him, not kill. The wound would therefore be crippling, but not life-threatening. They wanted him alive, then.

Sherlock took out a handkerchief and gingerly picked up the blade. Blood reached all the way to the hilt, 4 inches, solid cover. Stabbed, not slashed. Most likely in the leg. He glanced at the blood spatter on the left ground, a few drops near what would be John's footprint. The rest of the blood was mostly likely his attacker. He looked at the footprints again.

No.

Three attackers.

All in matching boots. Different sizes, weights, heights, but the same or similar attire. Workers, goons most likely. This wasn't random then, John was chosen.

Shit.


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade arrived then, far too late to help anything.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here?" he shouted. Donovan and Anderson both clambered out of the car. Ever his faithful servants.

"John's been kidnapped. Taken. Three assailants. Hired, not random. John shot one of them. Probably in the stomach judging by blood splatter and the amount of it. They stabbed him in the leg, upper thigh, no serious artery damage, maybe tissue damage, most likely recoverable. They are holding him within a twenty-five kilometer radius of this spot. Judging by the quality of the boots, I'd say in a privately owned warehouse or factory. I'll estimate that they contact us with proof that he's alive in approximately twenty minutes." He finished his observation, much to the stunned silence of the three officers. He looked at each of their faces, reading the shock on them, and the panic. John was at stake, why were they not moving?

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Sherlock, were you with him when it happened?"

The detective rolled his eyes. "Of course not, you imbecile! If I had been, he'd still be here, perfectly safe, and you would have three very dead criminals to bury. Mycroft called me as soon as it happened."

Lestrade nodded. He looked around then. "What was John even doing on this side of town alone anyway? This isn't anywhere near his usual hangout spots."

Sherlock swallowed. "We may have been separated, and he wandered in this direction."

Lestrade quirked an eyebrow. "On a case?"

Sherlock glanced down nervously. "An experiment of sorts, but then we had a bit of a disagreement, and he left."

The DI could see just how hurt the man was, so he pulled him aside, out of earshot of the other officers. "Sherlock, exactly what was this experiment about?"

The detective bit his lip, and the then looked at his shoes. "Me, him, us," he murmured. Lestrade showed surprised interest, so Sherlock continued. "I wanted to attempt a relationship with him. I needed data on how emotions worked to do that, how we worked. So I set up a scenario in which to gather such data. A set of scenarios that would work towards the beginning of such a relationship." Sherlock laughed bitterly. "I didn't credit him with being as clever as he is. He figured out that it was an experiment, and that, apparently, angered him." He took in a deep breath. "No, angered is the wrong word. He was very quiet, subdued. Hurt." Sherlock looked into The DI's eyes pleasingly, "Why did that hurt him?"

The entire time Lestrade kept his mouth closed. It was obvious that John had misinterpreted the eccentric detective. His wording was scientific, but the theme was genuine. Lestrade, like always, felt slightly sympathetic of this insane man that pretended not to feel.

"How you put it, Sherlock. When he heard 'experiment', he thought that it was fake, figured you were experimenting on him, not with him." The DI shook his head at the continuing look of exasperation on the detective's face. "He thought that instead of wanting to be with him, you were wanting to test him, to observe and analyze, not participate. At least I think that you had intended to participate."

Sherlock nodded, nibbling his lip in earnest. He really had mucked up, hadn't he?

"We need to find him. I need to make this right. I can't lose him." The intensity and utter sentimentality of the exclamation threw the DI through a loop. He had known the detective for years, and had never seen him so emotional.

"We will, but you need to keep your head, we can't find him with you panicking."

Sherlock straightened his back, and glared at the DI. "I don't panic."

Lestrade smirked, but was stopped by a ringing from the alley. Sherlock dashed to the sound, lifting the lid on the bin and pulling out John's phone. He glanced at Lestrade before answering the blocked number.

"Where is he?" Blunt, coarse, angry.

"Now, now, Mr Holmes, Your pet is unharmed, mostly. He did manage to kill one of my best men, so naturally he had to be subdued." Sherlock thought back to the stab wound, and his vision flashed red.

"Why are you doing this?" he barked, and the electronic voice chuckled.

"This is payment. You reneged on a deal with me years ago, and I've come to collect my payment. Seeing as the price, with interest, is far more than you can afford, I'll take my payment from your hide." There was a muffled, angry yell, John's, and the detective tensed. "Tsk tsk. It appears your dog doesn't like that idea." There was a muffled grunt and a sickening crack as a boot collided with John's ribs.

"So here is my offer. Bring your payment, and the original sum of just £10,000 to the address I send you, or I take all of it out of your precious little lab rat." The call ended, and Sherlock felt a hand on his arm. Lestrade's. He was shaking with anger. One glance at his expression and both Donovan and Anderson got into the car.

"What do they want?" Lestrade asked, cautious.

"Me."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: This chapter contains triggers.**

John was bound and gagged, his arms and legs stretched into an X on the wall.

The dark figure before him was completely in shadow, protecting his identity and infuriating the doctor.

At the mention of harming Sherlock, John's emotions got the best of him. He screamed for Sherlock not to come, to let him be. As hurt as he was by the man's actions, the last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to be hurt.

The resulting kick to his ribs made him grunt, but he refused to let the blinding pain resonate in a scream. Sherlock would hear it, and he would come running.

The shadowy figure's hand fell to his side and he bent before John. He gripped John's jaw viciously, his fingers bruising the skin.

"Hear that, pet? Your master can own up, or you can pay his debts."

John thrashed against his chains, trying desperately to break free.

"Oh, you are a vicious little creature. I wonder how long it took Mr Holmes to break you in."

The distinctly American voice accent threw John in his attempt to identify his captor. He didn't know any American that Sherlock could have pissed off. Then again, he didn't know anyone that Sherlock owed anything to, yet here he was.

The hand clamped to his jaw released, moving instead to his wounded shoulder. The fingers dug into the tender flesh, forcing John to squirm in agony. The other hand gripped firmly at the doctor's hip, earning a wide eyed gasp of fear from John. The gag masked the sound, but not the sudden tension in his body.

"Relax, little one. I still have to keep you fairly whole for when your owner comes in. I want him to see you die before he does."

_**SHSHSHSHSH**_

Lestrade had seen Sherlock furious before. It was a frightening thing to behold. His skin would pale to marble, his jaw would set, his ever-changing eyes blazing with fury. None of those times held a candle to this one.

Sherlock was a rolling ball of hatred. One sound out of place and he turned on you.

Lestrade could even swear that the man's eyes had turned red.

They were searching every building that Sherlock deemed appropriate when the doctor's phone rang once more.

"Address time, Sherlock. I see you still haven't gotten your cash together. It's a shame really; your pet is so handsome. A bit rugged, but handsome."

Sherlock clenched his fist. Jealousy beyond measure poured through him, mingling with his rage.

"However, if you're not here in, oh, say, two hours, he'll be more ragged than rugged."

Sherlock nearly choked. His voice came out two octaves deeper than usual and dripping with pain. "Where."

Lestrade jumped at the sound. He had no idea that Sherlock was capable of that sort of pain. Not since before—

"High Road. I'm sure you'll remember which building." The voice across the line laughed, and Sherlock shuddered. Even through the mask of the electronics, he would recognise that laugh.

Victor.

"Victor Trevor."

The laughing over the line stopped abruptly, followed by the sound of slow clapping.

"Well done. I knew that you would figure it out eventually. I did give you a bit of an unfair advantage, but I always was a gentleman."

The detective shuddered. "You were a monster. Still are. Why are you doing this now?"

"As I said, you owe me a debt."

"What debt?!" Sherlock shouted. "I gave you what you wanted. I always paid you."

Lestrade paled. He knew now exactly what was going on.

He remembered the shaking, malnourished, specter ghosting around the streets.

He remembered busting in on a warehouse and finding said specter on his knees, tears streaming down his face as he paid for his next fix.

He remembered shouting and the other man pulling off and bolting, his trousers still around his thighs.

He remembered cuffing the young man and comforting him in his cell until his brother came and got him.

He remembered helping the young man through rehab and then constantly checking up on him for over two years.

Until John had come along.

Victor Trevor was the name that Sherlock would scream in his fever dreams, his voice full of terror and loathing. If he's returned, then heaven help him. Because Sherlock is on the war path.

"You paid me the upfront costs. I remember just how good you were with those. I wonder if you ever paid your Watson the same way?" There was a rustling of fabric. "I know he'd enjoy it."

Sherlock felt himself flush. John would enjoy it, being in the place Victor had once been, but he wasn't Victor. John wouldn't get off on the shame it brought, but the sheer pleasure of it. He knew that.

"You know, maybe it's better if you don't show up. I could get some use out of your pet yet."

That tore it. Sherlock threw the phone to the ground, watching it shatter to pieces, and wishing vehemently that it was Victor's skull.

Oh, Victor would be the one to pay.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: This chapter contains triggers.**

John felt the cool metal of the knife grazing against his skin. He heard it rip and tear through his jumper. A shiver ran down his spine as the biting air hit his skin.

The figure stepped back and snapped his fingers. The lights flickered on, blinding the poor doctor.

The American spoke, presumably into a phone. "Address time Sherlock. I see you still haven't gotten your cash together. It's a shame really; your pet is so handsome. A bit rugged, but handsome."

John rolled his eyes. Really?

"However, if you're not here in, oh, say, two hours, he will be more ragged than rugged."

There it was, the time limit.

"Where."

John jumped, his eyes focusing on the figure before him. The phone was on speaker, so that explained why he could hear Sherlock. If that was Sherlock. It sounded more like a roaring animal.

"High Rode. I'm sure you'll remember which building."

The figure laughed. He heard the sharp intake of breath across the line.

"Victor Trevor."

The name resonated with John.

Victor, Victor.

Lestrade had mentioned the name once.

"Well done. I knew that you would figure it out eventually. I did give you a bit of an unfair advantage, but I always was a gentleman."

John shook himself. Observe. Deduce. He could practically hear Sherlock shouting in his head.

"You were a monster. Still are. Why are you doing this now?"

Sherlock sounded hurt and angry, but distant. Like this was an old pain that he didn't want to revisit.

"As I said, you owe me a debt."

Focus on the man. What could Sherlock owe him?

Custom tailored suit.

Patent Italian leather shoes.

Perfectly kept hair.

Bruising around the eyes lightly covered with powder.

IV port scars on his hands.

Sunken yet strikingly attractive features.

Gaunt. Pale. Trembling.

Refined.

"What debt?! I gave you what you wanted. I always paid you."

There it was. This was the man.

This was the man that introduced Sherlock to the drugs.

This was the man that nearly destroyed Sherlock.

The memory of Mycroft's mention of cutting Sherlock off slammed into him.

How could he pay if Mycroft stopped giving him mon—oh.

Oh no.

"You paid me the upfront costs. I remember just how good you were with those. I wonder if you ever paid your Watson the same way?"

The figure knelt before John, his fingers tracing over his exposed chest. He shivered out of revulsion.

"I know he'd enjoy it."

John tensed.

He would enjoy that.

Many a guilty night had been spent dreaming of Sherlock kneeling before him. But now, after seeing the man that forced such things on Sherlock…

His Sherlock.

"You know, maybe it's better if you don't show up. I could get some use out of your pet yet."

He heard the shattering as the phone disconnected. Sherlock was furious. And he was coming here.

"Well, Doctor Watson, it appears that your owner doesn't quite like the idea of you paying me like he used to. I can only assume that that means he doesn't like to share. Whether it's you or me, I don't know. I mean, we were close all those years ago." Victor stood, his fingers knotting in the doctor's hair, yanking his head back roughly. "But you. The soldier. The faithful sidekick to the public eye. Rogue hero to Sherlock. He's obviously attached to you. The last time I saw him like this was University. With me. Before I left him, drug addled and mindless in the streets. He would always find his way back to me, and I'd always get him his next fix, for a price. Sadly, when money left the picture, he had to turn to less elegant methods."

John flinched. All he wanted to do was destroy this monster that had dared to hurt Sherlock.

"When we got caught, Sherlock was on his knees. He didn't even struggle when the cop took him away."

Lestrade.

It had been Lestrade.

The memory of the DI telling him about this particular piece of Sherlock's past hit him. "Watch out for Victor Trevor."

Now he knew why.

"Last I heard, he was clean, then a hero, then dead, then a hero again. I hear tell that you're responsible for all that. Bravo."

John was seething now. To be mocked was one thing, but to be mocked for helping Sherlock—

"I figured that it was time I came back and collected the rest of my debts. He owes me far more than the 10,000 I asked for."

A realisation hit John.

This wasn't about the money.

He just wanted to hurt Sherlock again.

He gets off on it.

Even now John could see the excitement that the prospect of harming the detective put in his eyes.

"You seem distracted, Watson. Maybe I should do something to focus you a bit."

John felt a pinch, and suddenly the world went black.


	7. Chapter 7

Lestrade was trailing behind the raging whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes.

Never before had there been a more accurate physical representation of that phrase.

Sherlock was running, full tilt, through the streets of London.

Lestrade had offered the consulting detective a ride, but the man had simply bolted down the nearest alleyway.

Now he saw why.

The traffic was completely still, jammed up without any hint that it would move any time soon.

He had no idea how the detective had deduced this would happen, but he was grateful he had.

If anyone had the power to save John Watson and face their innermost demons at the same time, it was Sherlock.

He hoped.

If anyone would have walked up to Sherlock a year ago and told him that he would be running straight into the arms of Victor Trevor, he would have beaten them senseless.

Yet here he was, going back to pay for his drugs.

Except this time it wasn't cocaine.

It was a drug so powerful that the very thought of going on without it burned him to the core.

The drug was John Watson.

And the knowledge that someone else, someone evil, held that drug in the palm of his hand was enough to drive him to this.

John awoke, far too aware of his surroundings.

He took stock of himself.

High energy.

Anxiety.

Extreme alertness.

And he felt great.

That was bad.

Very bad.

At least, that's what his rational brain was telling him.

But he did feel great.

Until he showed up.

With his cheekbones, and that coat collar turned up so he'd look cool.

And those cheekbones.

Sherlock was looking right at him.

And he looked so sad.

John smiled at him, his teeth clicking together in a grin.

Part of him was aware that his gag was gone.

"Hey Sherlock. Why are you here? No wait. I'm here. No, why are you here?" He shook his head. "You hate me. You've always hated me. I'm an experiment. A lab rat. A plaything to stave off boredom." He was shaking now. Why did feel so hot, and why did everything look so sharp? Sound so crisp?

Sherlock could see it.

The way John was acting.

The way his eyes looked off, his breathing too shallow.

His babbling.

"My god." He ran forward, checking John over bit by bit.

He was shaking, anxious. Fearful.

He flinched away from Sherlock's touch.

The needle mark on his arm was more than enough to prove his theory.

The slow clapping from behind him helped.

"Well, well, you really are partial to this pet. I'm kind of disappointed."

Sherlock turned around, a hand still lightly brushing against John's side. He refused to let go of that small touch of reassurance.

"Frankly, I thought that you would come in, guns blazing. Your constable behind you." Victor stopped and smiled. "No. It's Detective Inspector now, isn't it?"

He stepped forward, just outside of Sherlock's reach.

"You see, I thought you'd put up a fight. Wait until the final countdown, try and kill me, save your precious little Watson."

He leaned forward, the hand previously held behind his back now pressing a gun to Sherlock's chest.

"So now here we are again. I have something you want. Something I know you can't live without. And you have no way of getting it. Well, one way."

He stepped back, waving his arms grandly.

Sherlock shook his head. "No."

"No? You don't get to say no."

The gun went off, and the figure behind him jerked. A whimper escaped John's lips.

"Next time you say no, it won't just be his chain that rattles."

Victor laughed.

Sherlock flinched.

"Now," commanded Victor.

The detective made to move forward. To give in.

John rattled his chains. "Please, not him."

Victor's eyebrows rose slightly.

He stepped in and shoved the gun into Sherlock's ribs, scooting him aside and keeping him close, in case he tried anything. He looked at John questioningly.

"Why not him? Do you not want to see your owner get hurt? "

John scoffed. It was a pitiful sound, weak, forced. "Owner? Do you honestly think he owns me?"

Victor smirked. "Why else would anyone live with a freak like him? Especially after he fakes his own death and leaves you behind. He has to have something over you. Some sort of blackmail."

He leaned in, forcing John back into the chains.

"Is he holding your girl hostage?"

Victor's face was a mere inch from John's now.

"Did he catch you kissing your sister? Help you off some pompous bastard?"

Their lips were nearly touching.

"Because there is no way any normal, sane, and boring man like you would live with Sherlock Holmes by choice."

"I'm nowhere near normal." John smiled before pressing his lips to Victor's, stunning him. He pulled back swiftly, and shouted, "Vatican Cameos!"

Sherlock sprang into action. He dodged away from the barrel of the gun, simultaneously twisting it from Victor's grip and breaking the man's wrist in the process.

He crumpled to his knees in agony.

"What the fu-"

The cold metal of the gun barrel pressed into the base of his skull, effectively killing the rest of the sentence.

Sherlock glanced up at John, who was shaking now, coming down from his high.

He gave a small nod and shut his eyes tight.

"After everything, Victor, I thought you'd learn. I hate when things that I care for are taken from me."

Sherlock leaned down pulled the man's hand into his. "My deduction notebook in year one."

A snap and a shriek as a finger was broken. John flinched.

"My riding crop in year two."

Another snap.

Another shriek.

John bit his lip. He knew that the detective needed this.

"My sanity in year three."

Sherlock's voice was rumbling now. The righteous thunder beating every lighting sharp crack of bone in Victor's body.

"My innocence in year four."

Another snap, this one deeper. It sounded of bone grinding on bone, and the way that Victor was keening let tell that it was a major bone. Most likely an arm.

"And then, after you had left, and I got clean, you see it fit to come after the one thing that put me back together again."

And smack, as Victor was kicked face first to the concrete. His mangled arm caught beneath him.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

The man on the ground whimpered. "Please. Please stop. I'll give you what you want. Just stop."

Sherlock smirked. "I never begged."

With that the butt of the gun came crashing down against the back of the man's head, knocking him unconscious.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note: This chapter contains triggers.**

John opened his eyes to the sound of a thwack and saw Sherlock standing over the prone body.

"Sherlock," He whispered and the detective turned to him, taking stock once again of his condition.

John was sobering up.

Much quicker than he should be.

And he was shaking.

That wasn't good either.

"John. I'm here, I'm right here. Shhh." He put his hand gently on John's cheek, reveling in the way the man's face turned into his palm. "You're okay now. I'll get you down."

John nodded, trying desperately to still his shivering body and the rattling chains.

The detective pulled out his lock pick and set to work unlatching John's arms.

He caught the doctor as he crumpled and laid him on the ground gently.

Another few clicks and John's ankles were free.

He immediately curled around Sherlock, the warmth and comfort overriding any lingering pain from the ill-fated dinner.

Sherlock gripped John to his chest, wrapping his coat around him.

"Sherlock," John grunted, squirming in the detective's grasp. "Sherlock. We need to get up."

The detective agreed, but he did not want to oblige. A bubble of anxiety grew in his chest.

What if John was hurt?

What if he had to go the hospital?

What if Victor came back and tried to hurt John again?

What about that kiss?

What if John left him?

"Sherlock, I'm okay. I hate hospitals just as much as you do—well, at least when I'm the patient. Does Lestrade know we're here?"

The detective nodded, rocking back and tugging John up with him.

A pained hiss and the sound of grating bone tore at Sherlock. "You'll need a hospital."

John grunted and straightened out, ignoring how Sherlock kept one warm hand on the small of his back and another on his stomach.

"If Lestrade's on his way, then so is an ambulance. Granted, it's probably for that bastard over there—" He hooked his thumb over his shoulder at the figure on the floor. "But they can wrap a cracked rib. No need for a hospital."

Sherlock looked unconvinced.

"And these bruises? Or strained muscles? Or the bloody stab wound in your leg?"

The doctor shrugged and winced.

"A nice hot bath, the cut isn't that bad. I will need something for this headache, though, blimey."

The detective smirked. "That would be the drugs. You came down rather quickly, I'm impressed."

And a subtle blush crept over his features. "It's not the first time I've, err, been exposed to that sort of thing. Experiments at University and all that. Never cared for it, though."

Sherlock nodded, stepping back and stripping off his coat.

"Doesn't really fit you anyway, the drugs," Sherlock said.

John let the detective wrap the coat around him. He was grateful for the warmth, but surprised by the sudden act of kindness.

"What's all this then?"

The detective shrugged, crossing his arms nonchalantly across his chest.

"You're shivering. It wouldn't do for you to catch cold. You're completely useless to me sick."

The way he glanced at John's face, eyes flickering nervously, worry etching his brow, clued the doctor in to how concerned his friend really was.

Concern.

That was definitely not Sherlock.

"Are you alright?"

The detective looked up, lips parted slightly. Obviously surprised by the comment. "Huh, oh, yeah, I'm fine."

The doctor in John knew better though. He saw the signs clearly now. Fear. Just like Baskerville all those years ago. Sherlock Holmes was afraid.

John touched Sherlock's shoulders lightly, reassuring.

In response, the detective wrapped his arms around the doctor's shoulders in a light embrace, his face burrowed into his neck. It was awkward at first, John remembering the date, and Sherlock having little to no experience with comfort, but John soon leaned into Sherlock, his arms coming up to rub Sherlock's back. The stiffness eased from Sherlock's arms.

"What the hell is taking the Yard so long? It's been nearly ten minutes since you wrapped this up, and they still aren't here."

Sherlock smirked, his fingers gripping the coat fabric tightly slightly before releasing him.

"Accident. They'll be here in 3, 2, 1."

At that moment, Lestrade burst in through the door, his usual entrance announcement dying in his throat as he saw the two men standing in the center of the room.

"Settled this yourselves, then."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"He's still alive. You won't have to wake my brother. We both know how cranky he can get."

The DI refused to rise to the bait, the slight blush barely noticeable.

"John, how bad?"

John almost smiled darkly. "Him? He will never be able to use his right arm again, or wrist, or hand. Me? Cracked rib, sore everything. Killer headache. I'll be fine in a day or three."

Lestrade nodded.

"There is an ambulance outside, go get patched up and I'll have a car take you back."

"We'll just catch a cab," said Sherlock.

With that, the detective gripped John's shoulder, supporting him as he hobbled out the door.


	9. Chapter 9

The paramedic managed not to cringe when she saw John's near purple side. Though her insistence on taking John to the emergency room was extremely annoying.

"Sir, I'm afraid I must insist. The care that you need—"

"Can be provided at home. I'm perfectly confident that I'll be alright. It's the other guy you should worry about."

He downed the antibiotics that she handed him and hopped out of the ambulance. "What other guy?"

John smirked as he felt the shadow that was Sherlock Holmes slide up behind him.

"My attacker."

At that moment, Lestrade and Donovan came out of the building, Victor Trevor restrained to a stretcher. His arm was bent at an awkward angle and looked completely limp. The paramedic gasped.

"What the hell happened to him?"

Sherlock smirked, his finger's brushing John's arm. "Self-defense."

The skeptical glare that he caught went thoroughly ignored.

A sleek black car pulled up to the curb.

"Looks like Mycroft wants to insure we get back alright," said John.

Sherlock huffed, opening the door for John before helping him in. As they settled into the car—which was blissfully devoid of any other occupants—the detective surreptitiously cast glances at his battered blogger.

"Look, John."

The doctor held up a hand.

"Not now Sherlock. Please. It's been a bad night—to put it mildly—and—and I'd rather not dredge up the sore points. Just forget about it, alright?"

Sherlock swallowed, his arms curling around his knees as he folded into the seat. "I don't want to forget though. I can't."

The doctor frowned, the lights casting dark shadows over his features. "Sure you can, Sherlock. Just go to your mind palace and delete it. Like you did the solar system, or the proper uses for kitchen appliances."

Sherlock snorted derisively. "I can't delete anything pertaining to you John. I don't want to. Especially not that first part."

John peered out the window, processing the new information. It really didn't make any sense.

And few moments passed in silence as they crawled through traffic.

Sherlock was the first to break it.

"I was wrong though. So very wrong." John turned his head sharply, ignoring the pain the motion caused.

Sherlock never admitted that he was wrong.

Ever.

"Sherlock—"

"Just listen. Please. Hear me out."

The doctor nodded, turning in his seat to face the detective.

"It was an experiment, John. I won't deny that." John drew in a deep breath, ready to stop the conversation, when Sherlock's hand rose. "It was an experiment on us. Collective. I wanted to see how we worked. As a couple." The detective took a deep breath of his own, closing his eyes. "I wanted to try a relationship. Between the two of us."

John's mouth hung open. This was not at all what he had expected. Ever.

Sherlock's next words were muffled by his knees. Quiet and broken. Yet John managed to hear them anyway. "And now I've mucked up my chance."

Despite his injuries, that sentence was enough of a catalyst to send the doctor across the seat to wrap himself around Sherlock.

The detective was frozen, shocked, frightened, amazed.

"You stupid git. You absolutely brilliant idiot. Why the fuck didn't you explain this earlier?"

Sherlock couldn't move.

Couldn't breathe.

John was touching him.

Embracing him.

Him.

One of his arms was around the detective's knees, the other one around his back. His face buried in Sherlock's curls.

John pulled back as suddenly as he had moved forward, yet this time his hand stayed on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock unfurled, turning sharply in his seat, his eyes tearing into John.

He didn't understand.

Why on earth had John forgiven him?

Had John even forgiven him, or was this just friendly comfort?

"Would have explaining it earlier been any better?" He spat the words, his voice near breaking.

The doctor could see exactly what Sherlock was thinking. He thought that he had well and truly destroyed things.

Oh how wrong he was.

But how would he prove it when words obviously wouldn't work?

The only thing that he could think to do was to lean forward in his seat, close his eyes, and capture Sherlock's lips with his own.

Sherlock could feel the first tear fall as he brought a shaky hand to John's bruised cheek, and the other wrapped gingerly around his back.

This was so much more than he had let himself hope for.

John was kissing him.

And Sherlock kissed back.

This was it. This was what the past five years, six months, twenty-nine days, eighteen hours, forty-two minutes, thirty-four seconds had led to.

Sherlock could never have anticipated the feeling of it.

Truth be told, neither could John.

It was like fire and ice, electric and potent.

It was brief, but both men were left breathless.

John opened his eyes only to see the tears falling onto Sherlock's cheeks.

"Sherlock! Geez," he muttered, thinking he'd upset the detective with the kiss. He brought his hand up and brushed the tears from the detective's cheek. "Look, mate. I'm sorry. I-"

John's apology was cut off by a firm pair of lips on his own. A hand bracing his neck as a tongue forced its way between his lips.

Sherlock was not going to give this feeling up. It was so addictive.

John tried to relax into the ferocious attack, he really did, but the clashing of teeth and the mashing of lips was far too much for him.

He pulled away, his hands cupping Sherlock's face.

The look of loss he found there nearly brought tears into his own eyes.

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm alright. We're alright. Everything is going to be fine."

The detective nodded, but he still looked unconvinced. A soft kiss drew a small smile from him.

"I don't know what to say," Sherlock whispered, and John laughed before clucking his side with a grimace.

Through gritted teeth, he commented, "Sherlock Holmes, short of words. If kissing does that for you, I may make a habit of it."

Sherlock grinned, his hand wrapping around John's wrist.

The wince that motion caused earned John an apologetic squeeze of his hand.

"I'm not made of glass, you know," John said.

Sherlock smirked. "Right now, you might as well be." Sherlock glanced out the window and frowned. They had been traveling for far too long for a trip to Baker Street.

John sensed that there was something wrong, and the sudden hardening of Sherlock's features confirmed it.

Sherlock crept to the front of their compartment, his finger's feeling the edges of the partition.

As soon as he made to sit back down, the glass rolled down.


	10. Chapter 10

"Have you finally patched things up then?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at his brother. "That is none of your business, Mycroft," the detective spat, earning a glare through the rear view mirror.

"You could at least pretend to be gratuitous. I picked up the tab for dinner, after all."

Sherlock grunted, sitting back and looking out the window.

"Doctor Watson, it's good to see you alive and relatively well."

John nodded, his initial shock of the driver being none other than Mycroft Holmes nearly forgotten.

He glanced over at Sherlock.

"Yeah. Though it will be another better once I'm back in one piece. You can drive?" The laughter that flowed from the front of the car was not only genuine, but unnervingly so. "What? You and your sleek black cars. I assumed that you wouldn't even bother with learning how to drive."

The elder Holmes grinned into the mirror.

"Both Sherlock and I can drive, though a little bird tells me that you, yourself—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glared at his brother.

"Honestly Mycroft, can you go one day without dredging up someone else's flaws?"

Mycroft snorted. "Can you? Besides, as your older brother, I thought it was my duty to tease your boyfriends?"

Both Sherlock and John blushed at that.

"I'm not his—we aren't—" John stammered before Sherlock's hand found his. "Oh, bloody hell, we are."

The smirk he caught from the mirror was far too much.

"Oh, sod it."

With that he pulled Sherlock to him for yet another searing kiss, grinning inwardly at the sound of the partition glass rolling back up.

Sherlock flipped the camera—that John had gratefully not seen—the two finger salute and was met with a muffled chortle from the front.

He wrapped his fingers around the lapels of his own coat, grinning into the kiss, at the fact that the doctor was already wearing his clothes.

The kiss deepened, John's hands hooking around his waist.

Sherlock wormed his way under the warm woolen fabric of his coat, but stopped when his fingers came into contact with the coarse bandage wrapping the doctor's ribs.

He pulled back slowly, his forehead resting on John's.

They were both panting for breath.

Sherlock could hear the slight wheezing his blogger made with his compressed chest.

He wanted to stop, to walk away so he would not harm this man any further.

He wanted to pull him tight and soothe away all his aches and pains.

More than anything he wanted John.

By the way that he had worked his fingers under Sherlock's shirt and drew circles against his skin, John wanted him too.

But not now.

John seemed to have read the detective's mind, as he muttered a curse under his breath.

Sherlock chuckled, his fingers trailing up and down the doctor's arms.

"You're injured. No strenuous activity until you're better. No good can come from you being laid up for too long."

John rolled his eyes, wincing slightly at the stretch of his bruised skin. "Give it three days. A week max."

The chuckle he received was warming. "More like three to six weeks, depending on if the fracture of your rib is as bad as I know it is."

He frowned then, pulling his head back.

"You really should have gone to the hospital," Sherlock added. "I'm not a doctor, I can't patch you up."

John shrugged, his face contorted into a mask of pain at the movement. "I'd rather get a B-rate job by you than random doctor at Bart's."

The car jolted to a stop, shaking both of the occupants.

The window partition rolled down again, Mycroft grinning at the two of them suspiciously.

"I, as a good citizen of Great Britain, cannot let such a valued employee of the country to go unaided."

John's door popped open, greeting him with the door of 221B.

Instead of Mrs. Hudson standing at the door, there was Anthea-or whatever-her-real-name was typing away at her phone, a roller bag propped under her elbow.

"Quinn, as I believe she is going by today, is a fully trained medical technician. She will show you the basics, Sherlock."

The detective buried his gratitude under a mask of contempt, huffing indigently in thanks.

John limped out of the car and smiled briefly at the woman, who smiled back without ever looking up.

He hollered a, "thanks Mycroft" at the car as Sherlock scrambled out of it.

Before the doctor had time register the bow in his leg, Sherlock had his arm around him, supporting him.

Quinn-not-Anthea opened the door and lead the two men inside.

She made her way quickly and quietly up the steps, the cumbersome bag not fazing her in the least.

Sherlock took the first three steps side by side with John, attempting to save the man's pride.

It soon became clear, however, that the journey would be agonizing and slow.

Sherlock made the decision, however painfully embarrassing it may be, and scooped the injured doctor into his arms.

The resulting not-so-manly-squeal and accompanying, "What the bloody fuck, you git?" was met with the detective nearly leaping the stairs two at a time.

He finally burst into the flat, settling the red faced and stammering doctor onto the sofa.


	11. Chapter 11

"Sh-Sherlock. Wha-Why?" He shook his head, wincing at the motion and clutching his head when the room began to spin.

"And that is why we take things slow." The impatient tapping of a heel against the floor brought Sherlock back to the present.

"How do I?" He stopped, the waver in his voice unacceptable. He coughed slightly and leveled the woman with his most commanding glare. "Tell me what to do."

He bit back an angry retort and was met with the rarest of sights.

Mycroft's assistant put away her phone.

She knelt down in front of the doctor, unfastening her medical case and rolling it out along the floor.

Sherlock actually raised an eyebrow at the curious kit, secretly appreciative of the array equipment.

First step was a portable x-ray, which revealed not one, but three cracked ribs.

"That's a neat little thing," John commented, watching as she ran the scanner over the rest of him.

"State of the art," Sherlock mused.

Quinn made sure the doctor was in relatively one piece before fishing a bottle of pain pills from a pouch. She took two pills, dropping them into John's palm.

Sherlock wordlessly fetched a glass of water, quickly starting the kettle for a mug of tea.

John swallowed the pills, graciously taking the glass and brushing the back of Sherlock's hand with his own.

"The paramedic tried to wrap my ribs, but it's a bit loose."

The woman nodded, pulling John out of Sherlock's coat and removing the wrapping from his ribs.

Sherlock watched with rapt attention, his mind cataloging every detail of every motion the PA made.

The way John would wince when pressure was placed on a certain point.

The twist of John's lip as the bandage wrapped around him.

The attractive way he blushed when she pulled down his tattered jeans to get at the wound on his leg.

"Really, John, I don't see a cause for this embarrassment. You dropped your trousers for the paramedic back at the crime scene."

John's cheeks burned brighter, and he gave the detective his most exasperated glare. "Oh, you're the detective. Figure it out."

Sherlock quickly skimmed through the variables, and his lips tugged up slightly.

"They treated this wound first didn't they? When I was giving my statement."

John looked pointedly forward, wincing as Quinn's fingers tugged off the already soiled dressing.

"You're embarrassed because of me." It wasn't a question, but a statement, and John's deepening blush confirmed it.

Why?

Why was his blogger embarrassed to be seen by him?

Sherlock took in every inch of a very exposed John Watson, until his eyes rested on the Union Jack pillow now firmly clamped to his lap.

Oh.

That's a very legitimate reason, indeed.

"I can tell you've figured it out by now," John grumbled, his entire person dusted pink.

There was one final tug at the bandage on the doctor's thigh as Quinn rose form the ground and took her phone out of her pocket.

She waved them farewell and disappeared from sight, leaving the two men alone.

John and Sherlock took a few moments to assess each other.

John was nearly naked, still in pain, grimy, and apparently aroused.

Sherlock was perfectly fine—save a bit rattled from the events of the evening—and also feeling the unfamiliar warmth in his stomach.

It took all of five minutes of awkward silence before John made up his mind.

"Do you have any experiments in the bathtub?"

Sherlock nodded his head, moving subtly closer to the couch.

"Some algae samples I'm culturing. Why do you ask?"

John rolled his eyes and attempted to stand, the pillow in his lap falling to the ground. He lost his balance, and was met with Sherlock's arms around his shoulders.

"Easy. Why does it matter what I have in the bathtub?" Sherlock repeated, slightly amazed himself that he willingly did so.

"Because I need a wash, and I obviously can't stand on my own—" He purposefully let the sentence fall and watched as the detective's mind worked through the meaning of it.

He reached his conclusion at the same moment John was about to give up on the idea.

"You know, that is an issue." He turned, stopping in front of the doctor, a finger lightly tracing the bruise on his cheek before tilting his chin up.

The detective closed the distance between their lips, the kiss soft, tender.

John kissed back fiercely, his fingers tugging anxiously at the fabric of Sherlock's far-too-tight shirt.

He yanked it free of the detective's trousers.

Sherlock gasped at the cold touch against his heated skin.

John's chuckle at that gave him more than enough of a distraction to scoop John up again.

"Sherlock!" the doctor giggled. The detective carried him bridal-style into his room, and then headed for the on-suite bath.

"Don't go think that this is symbolic of anything," John muttered as soon as his feet hit the floor.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Their lips met again, passionately, but when a wayward press of a hand resulted in a painful yelp, they stopped.

"John," Sherlock murmured, his fingers splaying over the bandage on his side.

"I'm fine, Sherlock."

As if to prove his point, he guided the detective's hand down to his hip.

Sherlock trailed that hand over and caressed John lightly, but the sudden flare of pain had already done its evil.

John's blush grew deeper still, but Sherlock calmed him with a light kiss.

"Later. We have later."

With that, the detective seemed to come back to himself.

He knelt before the doctor, and expertly unwrapped John's wounds. Being mindful of the plastic wrapped carefully across the stitches on his thigh.

Sherlock quickly peeled the doctor out of his pants, mindful to keep his gaze locked onto John's.

"Next time."

John bit his lip, nodding.

Sherlock stood, shedding himself of his clothing while still maintaining eye contact with his blogger.

He wanted to reassure him, to let John know that this was not a problem. That it was alright.

Carefully, he helped the doctor hobble to the shower stall.

"You know, you can just bring a stool or something in here for me to sit on. I'll be okay. You can—you know—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, starting the water with one hand, the other around the doctor's waist.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight again tonight. You're just going to have to suffer with taking a nice, long, hot shower with me." The smirk in Sherlock's voice ruined effect of his totally stoic expression.

"Fine."

Sherlock clambered in after the doctor, the glass door clicking into place behind him.

He positioned them so that they were face to face, John's back getting the most of the hot water.

He could see his blogger visibly relaxing as the water washed away the ache in his bones and soothed his tender skin.

With the sort of gentle care he gave a delicate experiment, Sherlock washed and rinsed the doctor. Soft kisses touching each and every cut and bruise he could see.

John was leaning heavily against him now, his breathing deep and slow.

Sherlock nearly laughed aloud.

He had fallen asleep!

With a near silent chuckle, the detective shut off the water and kissed his blogger's cheek.

"Come on John. Almost time for bed."

The doctor nodded sleepily, saying nothing as the detective dried him off.

Still nothing as he wrapped his chest once more in the thick bandage.

But when Sherlock nestled the doctor into his own bed, a soft "Stay" echoed through the room.

That was the only prompting that the detective needed.

The lights were off and he crawled carefully into the other side of the bed.

He soon drifted to sleep himself, lulled by the gentle snoring of his oh-so-alive John Watson.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock awoke with something curled into his side.

Coarse cloth and warm flesh were sensations he had never thought of as pleasant. Yet as he glanced over, his chest filled with warmth at the sight of John Watson, asleep, one arm splayed over Sherlock's chest, the other tucked like a pillow beneath his head.

The detective resisted the urge to reach out and stroke the purple bruises on the man's face, as if the action could erase them.

Panic suddenly enveloped him.

All of this was his fault.

He had created the enemy that had injured his blogger. It was him who'd caused John to walk into danger in the first place.

Every cut and bruise, the pulled muscles, the cracked ribs, it may as well have been him who had inflicted them.

He felt his throat constrict with the onslaught of guilt.

He couldn't be here, he didn't deserve it.

"Sh'lock."

The detective froze.

He couldn't breathe, much less respond.

"Sh'lock, stop thinking. Some of us are tryin' to sleep."

With that, the doctor tightened his grip on the detective, throwing a leg over him. The sudden contact of his wounded leg sent waves of stinging pain through the doctor.

His eyes shot open, and he hissed with pain.

Sherlock tried to get up. He tried to help John, but the man's body was effectively pinning him to the bed.

"John. John, get off me. You're hurting yourself."

The doctor smiled grimly, kissing Sherlock's chest—the nearest thing to him—before rolling over with a grunt.

Sherlock blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Finally he recovered himself enough to sit up.

"Well, a good morning to you, too," John said, wincing. "Do me a favour and bring me a few more of those pills that What's-her-face gave me, please."

Sherlock nodded, rolling out of the bed and rushing to the living room.

He returned with the entire med kit in tow, which set John to laughing.

"Plan on operating, doc?"

Sherlock blushed slightly before his usual scowl took its place. "No, I figured I'd go ahead and work with everything else, since I'm thinking of it."

John snorted.

"Though, if you're going to be so annoying, I may as well go beg Lestrade for a case or something."

John smirked, attempted to push himself up, and failed. With a blush, he muttered, "Help me up, will ya?"

The detective rolled his eyes, but crawled back into the bed anyway.

He curled his arms under the doctor and lifted him up, gritting his teeth against the pained groaning of the doctor.

"Fuck, you know, was it really necessary for him to crack my ribs?"

Sherlock smirked sadly. "Be glad it wasn't your hands."

The doctor grunted in agreement.

Sherlock handed him the pills and a bottle of water.

With that task done, the detective's gaze fell to the sheet covering his blogger's lap.

"Do you think we need to change the dressing on your thigh? Or would you rather me leave it be?"

John shrugged. "I think it's fine. I would like to get dressed though." He saw the oh-so-subtle way the detective's eyes flickered. "I'm not going to run around the flat naked," he added. He held up a hand to fend off Sherlock's coming retort. "It's not a modesty thing, Sherlock. It's cold, for one thing, and Mrs. Hudson is sure to have heard about what happened." He grimaced, remembering the last time their landlady had found out about one of them getting hurt. It took him weeks to get the smell of aroma therapy candles out of the flat. "I would rather her not see me naked, if it's all the same to you."

The detective nodded. "Fine. I'll get you some clothes."

He made to get off the bed, but John just tugged him back down.

"No you won't. I'll not have you treating me like an invalid, Sherlock. I won't have it."

Sherlock put his hands up in mock surrender. "Fine." He stood, crossing his arms over his chest and stepping back. "Get up."

John rolled his eyes. He pushed and grunted until he was standing, his wounded leg wobbling under him slightly.

Three steps brought him to Sherlock's dresser, where he proceeded to remove a pair of silk pyjamas.

Sherlock scrunched his brow in confusion.

"Why are you putting on my clothes?"

The doctor braced himself against the wall, slowly kicking his wounded leg into the bottoms. "I said I would get dressed."

The detective hid his amusement, opting for annoyance. "And in what way does that statement give you permission to put on my pyjamas?"

John pushed up from the wall slipping his arms into the sleeves of the blue silk shirt.

Before he could button it though, a peel of deep laughter rippled through the room.

"What?" He looked up, and Sherlock was holding his stomach, laughing freely at the doctor. The moment was so surreal, John had to pinch himself. "What's so funny?"

Sherlock shook his head and grinned.

"You! Yes, John, point proven, you don't need to be coddled. Bravo, but you need to see yourself!"

John could very well imagine what he looked like.

His hair flat in the back and spiked up on top because of him sleeping on it wet.

His face scratched and bruised from the night before.

The rough brown bandage encasing his chest.

The blue silk shirt that hung loosely on his shoulders, the sleeves of which were hanging down past his fingertips.

Then the blue silk bottoms that were far too tight on his hips, hung loosely everywhere else, and pooled on the floor.

The whole thing, in his mind's eye, had him looking much like a child in a grown-up's clothing.

To Sherlock, he looked absolutely irresistible.

"I'm sure I look hilarious, Sherlock, but at least I'm dressed."

The detective glanced down at himself, blushing slightly.

He had forgotten clothing.

Again.

"Clothing isn't a necessity."

John rolled his eyes, limping to the door.

A cheery "Yoo-hoo, Boys," rippled through the door, and John glanced back at the blushing figure beside him.

"Not a necessity?"

Sherlock snatched his dressing gown from a hook and pulled on a pair of pants.

"Sherlock?"

John cleared his throat and opened the door.

"We're here, Mrs Hudson."

She turned the corner, her hand flying to her throat.

"Oh my. It's so much worse than what that Detective Inspector told me."

She teetered over and ran her hand over his cheeks, turning his head this way and that.

"He's fine, Mrs Hudson. A few days rest and he'll be back to chasing me around London in no time."

The woman clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "And look at you! I heard what happened. Nasty creature, that man." She patted Sherlock's shoulder affectionately. "But you're both alright now. Safe and home with the ones you love."

Both men glanced at each other, John blushing prettily and Sherlock repressing a smirk.

"Now, how about a nice cuppa? I have the raspberry jam Mrs Evers just dropped off yesterday."

Both men nodded in agreement, making their way to the kitchen and settling into their respective chairs.

Mrs Hudson noticed that they were both sitting closer to each other than normal.

Considering John's outfit, the after events of last night were painfully obvious.

Nothing was said, however, until Sherlock mentioned his need to go shopping.

"Why do you need to go out? I just went to the shop yesterday," John asked.

Sherlock muttered something under his breath, and gave John his patented you-should-get-it glare. "There are some things that I need to procure."

The look that he gave his blogger drove his point home and John's blood pressure up.

"Oh, okay, sure."

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes.

"Neither of you are leaving this flat."

Sherlock looked up with a pout that had John giggling into his tea.

"But Mrs Hudson," The detective whined.

"Check your skull."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What on earth does that have to do with anything?"

His spiteful tone earned him a reproachful "Sherlock" from John.

Mrs Hudson shook her head, crossing her arms and tapping her heel impatiently.

"Sherlock, I know exactly what you were going to town for. I know what you want to procure, and I will tell you one more time. Go. Check. Your. Skull."

The detective huffed, but stood anyway, trudging into the living room and snatching his skull from the mantle.

He shook it, and was surprised to hear the clinking of something against the sides of the skull.

His cheeks burned as a realisation of the skull's contents dawned on him. A small bottle of lube fell into his palm, and he looked at the landlady in horror.

"Oh, don't give me that face. I've hidden those all around the flat."

Both men were looking at the older woman curiously now. Each with varying levels of amazement and embarrassment.

"What? I've been trying to get you two together for years. I figured I should prepare the flat for when it finally happened."

John shook his head and looked back down at his plate, his ears and neck crimson.

Sherlock grinned, setting the bottle onto the counter before putting his arm around the woman and kissing her cheek.

"You never cease to amaze me, Mrs Hudson." He flopped into his chair, leaning back and smirking at his blogger. "It looks like I'm not going out after all."

John choked on his bite of toast, earning a laugh from the other occupants of the kitchen.

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, we may want to drop it. John's uncomfortable."

The woman tapped her nose and winked at them before checking her watch.

"Oh dear, look at the time. Sorry boys, Ethster is due over any minute." She leaned in conspiratorially. "She and I will be gone all afternoon."

John groaned and buried his face in his hands. Gaining another chuckel from the older woman.

"Alright, alright, I'm heading out. You boys take care now."

She winked at them and skipped down the stairs.

Sherlock watched John's blush fade slightly, and waited for him to speak first.

"Did you know about that?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I knew she expected us to get together eventually. But no, I had no idea that she, well—" He pointed at the bottle on the counter.

John giggled slightly, holding his chest against the action. "At least that's something we won't need to shop for."

His giggling was shortened abruptly by a pair of lips on his.

He leaned into the kiss, his fingers once more finding their way into the detective's hair.

Strong arms pulled him out of his chair and carried him to the couch. He broke the kiss, clutching at his side and heaving for breath.

Sherlock watched him, brow creased with concern. "John. Are you alright? Do you need something?"

He knelt in front of the doctor and peered into his eyes, trying desperately to read his blogger.

John shook his head, leaning back and taking deep breaths.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Just winded." He swallowed another gulp of air. "I promise I'm not normally this easily winded."

Sherlock smiled, kissing John's wrist. "I know, believe me."

He crawled onto the couch, nestling his head into John's lap.

John carded his fingers through the younger man's hair, enjoying the unusual quiet and the contentment of the scene.

A few moments of this were all they got, before the sound of running footsteps shattered the calm.


	13. Chapter 13

John stayed perfectly still, knowing that Sherlock would kindly inform the visitor to piss off, and he could resume his peaceful afternoon.

Sherlock sat up, turning to do exactly that, but the sight that met him made his words die in his throat.

Harry Watson stood in the door, her fists clenched and a look between fear and fury on her face.

"Why are you here?" she snapped, her finger pointed accusing at the back of John's head.

John twisted in his seat at the sound of his sister's voice, before groaning at the agony the movement caused.

"I live here, Harry. Why are you here? What's wrong?"

The woman looked utterly furious; she ran her fingers through her shaggy grey-blonde hair, turning slightly, before planting her feet firmly and crossing her arms.

The exact same thing, Sherlock noted, that John did when he was furious yet relieved.

"I got a phone call last night."

John still looked lost, but Sherlock knew.

"What phone call? What does that have to do with anything?"

Harry went to speak, but Sherlock beat her to it. "From the Yard. Informing the next-of-kin that you've been abducted."

John paled and turned slowly back around, standing carefully from his seat.

Sherlock was up in an instant, careful to give John his space, but there in case he needed support.

The doctor limped over to his sister, whose expression had fallen into sympathy.

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, ignoring the protests of pain in his body.

"I was so worried about you, John. I thought, you running around London all the time like that, I thought you'd been killed."

John rubbed his hand soothingly over his sister's back. "I'm still alive, you know, regardless." He pulled away, keeping his hands on her shoulders. "Did they not call you to tell you that I'd been found?"

The woman shook her head. "Not at all. I only came here to talk to Sherlock about finding you."

The detective snorted derisively from his place by the couch. "Did you honestly think that you'd have to ask?"

Harry scowled at the taller man, clearly annoyed. "Well, excuse me. I figured Mr High-and-Mighty-Genius wouldn't stoop so low as to care about the well-being of his assistant or flat-mate or whatever the hell you call John."

The woman had turned completely now, the full force of her fury locking onto Sherlock.

"Partner."

Both Watsons blinked.

"What?" she asked blankly.

Sherlock pointed at John. "Partner, boyfriend, whichever he prefers."

Harry spun to her brother in shock. "No."

John blushed furiously and shrugged. "Kinda, yea."

She shook her head and hung it, a short bark of laughter following.

"Harry?" John asked cautiously. He glanced over at Sherlock, whose brow had creased in confusion. "Harry, what's wrong?"

She shook her head again, looking up with a smile. "I just lost 200 quid."

There was another laugh there, from both siblings. Even Sherlock smirked.

"I should have known. You're in his clothes!"

John blushed further, pulling the edges of the shirt tight around him.

"Well, now, this isn't, we haven't, we just—"

The woman rolled her eyes. "Doesn't matter. I'm out 200, you're dating a madman, but you're also alive, which is reassuring." She looked him over again. "Took a right beating too. What happened?"

John fidgeted slightly, looking at Sherlock to explain. "Former associate of mine. A psychopath, kidnapped John in an attempt at hurting me."

John nodded at the extremely watered down version of the night before. He was glad that Sherlock was tactful enough to withhold the majority of the truth.

"I expect that he is currently in the intensive care unit for extensive injury to his skull and the injuries of his arm," Sherlock finished.

Harry nodded, a slight smile plying at her lips. She straitened her hoody and stuffed her hands into her pockets. "Good. Glad to see you can clean up your messes. Next time, try to stop it from getting John in this shape."

Sherlock nodded, taking the order seriously.

Harry looked between the two men and smirked.

A few moments of silence fell until John coughed lightly. "Well Harry, would you care for some tea?"

The woman shook her head. "No, I should probably head back. I'm meeting Aimee for our AA meeting."

John smiled at her kindly. "It's good to see you, Harry."

The woman smiled at him. "You too, John."

She gave him a quick hug before striding over to Sherlock.

And then she slapped him, shocking both the detective and his blogger.

"What was that for?" John sputtered as Sherlock rubbed his stinging jaw.

"If you hurt him, or leave him like you did last time, I will make sure you stay dead, Sherlock Holmes."

Then she kissed him, full on the lips. "Thank you for getting him back."

She patted John in passing as she headed out of the door.

Sherlock stood there, frozen by the onslaught of John's sister.

"Did she just kiss you?"

The detective mentally shook himself. "Yes John, don't state the obvious."

John smirked; the stunned expression on the detective was priceless. "You, my friend, were not expecting that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped onto the couch. "I was not, but that doesn't mean that I'm shocked by it."

John chuckled softly, hobbling back to the couch, swatting the detective's feet from his seat as he went. "You were about as shocked as it gets."

Sherlock curled up on his end of the couch, tucking his knees under his chin and steepling his arms around them. "Was not."

He pouted and John patted his foot, much like he had done… yesterday? Had it only been yesterday?

"John?" Sherlock murmured, studying his blogger intensely.

"Yea?"

"Why did you look so shocked when I referred to you as my partner?"

John shook his head, turning slowly in his seat until his legs were stretched out the on the couch. "Don't take it personally. I just hadn't gotten to that realisation yet." He shrugged, wincing at the pull of his muscles.

The detective continued to scrutinize him for a moment before steepling his fingers beneath his chin and closing his eyes.

"Which do you prefer then?"

The doctor squinted, looking around and pursing his lips in confusion. "Come again?"

Sherlock sighed. "Partner or boyfriend. Which do you prefer?"

John's cheeks bloomed scarlet, and he coughed slightly. "Well, I mean, I've never really thought about—"

"Is there another term you would use? Companion perhaps. Maybe re-appropriate a word that we already use. Like colleague."

The doctor huffed out a laugh and shook his head. "Married to my work."

The detective looked up, startled. "What?"

John burst into giggles. "Married to my work. The line you fed me when I asked about your love life. 'Married to my work.' And you offer up calling me your colleague." He dissolved into a full-fledged fit of laughter, his arms clinging to his chest in an attempt to hold back the pain the action caused.

Sherlock was startled by both the sudden outpouring of laughter and the presence of tears.

He unfurled, his legs framing John's as his hands found the doctor's thighs. He leaned forward, pulling himself face to face with his blogger.

"John? John. What's wrong. Do you need more medicine? John, talk to me."

The doctor put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gasped for air, the keening sound forcing the detective to wince. "I'm... I'm fine, Sherlock. Just gimme a minute. Hurts to laugh." He leaned back a bit, dragging in a deep breath. "Damn. Okay, moving forward." He sat back up gingerly and took in the confusion and concern that etched Sherlock's features. "I'm fine. You have to admit, in that context, it's a very funny joke."

The detective rolled the thought over in his head, visibly cringing at the crystal-clear memory of his uttering those words. He thought of all of the times that they had introduced each other as colleagues and smirked. "Yes, it is rather funny." He frowned at his blogger, who was threatening to burst into giggles again. "But not that funny."

John smiled and gripped the detective's shoulders. "Look. I don't care what you call us—" He paused for a moment, considering. "Actually, don't call me your boyfriend. It's so—"

"Juvenile? Impermanent? Uncomfortable?"

John rolled his eyes. "Yea, that. In all seriousness though, I really don't care. You've got me and that's all that matters."

Sherlock smiled at that, the warm and rare smile that only came when John had done something exceedingly brilliant. "Alright then. Colleague it is, sinse you seemed to find it so amusing. Or partner, perhaps. It'll change for the situation, I suppose." He curled back onto his edge of the couch, digging his toes under John's hips. "It wouldn't do, after all, to introduce you to the latest serial killer as my 'Snookums'."

The doctor visibly paled and shuddered a bit. "If you ever introduce me as that, I swear to whatever power that's out there, I will make your life a living hell."

Sherlock snorted and wriggled his toes, forcing the doctor to squirm. "How very ambitious of you."

John crossed his arms and glared at the detective. "I'll post on the blog about that time you mistook the linens I had hung to dry for a specter. Or maybe about how you don't know the order of the rainbow."

The detective's smirk fell slightly.

"Oh! I know, how about the time you asked me where—in the solar system you don't know about—is Raxacoricofallapatorius."

Sherlock flushed, his voice dropping an octave. "You wouldn't dare."

The smug look on John's face proved that yes, he would. "Nice theory you have there. Care to test it?"

Sherlock shook his head, closing his eyes with a groan. "Give me a list of any fowl sort of name that would result in humiliation for me, and I promise that I won't delete it."

"Agreed."

The detective grabbed the pen and a notepad from the coffee table, shoving them at the doctor impatiently.

"Thank you."

Sherlock mumbled under his breath and John glanced up at him suspiciously.

"What was that?"

A look of mock innocence masked the detective's features.

:"Nothing. Don't know what you're talking about."

"Mmmhm." John shook his head and went back to writing while the detective continued to mumble under his breath.


	14. Chapter 14

**Trigger warning**

"Okay, so: baby, honey, sugar, pumpkin, candy—John, why does this list consist mainly of food items?"

The doctor shrugged. "I'm hungry."

The detective rolled his eyes and attempted to remove himself from the couch, but it became obvious that his blogger would not let him up.

He had hold of the detective's feet, effectively holding him to the couch.

"John. What are you doing?"

The doctor smiled and pulled one of the detective's feet into his lap.

"What the he—" His words were cut off by a burst of completely uncharacteristic giggles.

John held the detective's foot in his lap, tickling the underside and watching as the detective dissolved into giggles. "Ticklish, are we? That's good to know."

Sherlock managed to look annoyed despite his giggling. "John. John, please stop... I was only going to grab you... Grab you some crisps or... or something—"

John's smile grew wider. "And my laptop?" the doctor asked, pausing in his ministrations.

Sherlock nodded, trying desperately to wriggle his way free.

"Kiss on it?"

The detective rolled his eyes and huffed. "Honestly, John."

The doctor squinted. "What?"

"That is so juvenile."

John laughed again. "Says the man who stabbed a Cluedo board to the wall when he lost."

Sherlock sat up, his arms crossed over his chest. "That game was horrible, John. There is no way that any of those murders could actually have taken place in that manner."

The doctor smirked.

"Actually, from a non-linear, non-subjective point of—"

"Oh, no you don't."

The detective gripped the doctor's shoulders gingerly and kissed him softly. "There. I kissed on it. You win."

John released the detective's feet and leaned back, smiling lopsidedly as Sherlock grabbed his laptop and the crisps and tossed them on the couch.

"Anything else, your majesty?" Sherlock huffed, arms crossed as he loomed over the doctor.

He simply shrugged. "Unless you can magically heal me, then no, I'm as good as I get."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, flopping onto the couch and staring at the ceiling while John typed away at his computer, chronicling the events of the day as best as he could.

Obviously it was a heavily edited version.

After half an hour of Sherlock strolling through his mind palace and John typing and eating, the detective shifted his gaze from the ceiling to the laptop screen.

He effortlessly scrolled through the lines of text on display, smiling and frowning at all the appropriate points.

"After a completely infuriating dinner with Sherlock, (it actually started out as a rather nice one. Who didn't see THAT ending badly?) I stormed out of the restaurant, intent on taking a stroll to calm down. It wouldn't do, after all, to murder one's flat mate over a miscommunication.

I had managed to get myself completely and utterly lost, in in the shadier sides of town to boot.

Three thugs appeared from an alleyway. Two grabbed me while a third held a gun to my head.

I managed to wrestle the gun away from him and ended up wounding him in the process."

"Killing. He's dead, John."

The doctor turned slightly, not expecting Sherlock's head to be so close to his shoulder.

He huffed. "Yes, I do know that, Sherlock. However, it may not be the best decision to admit to murder on a very popular website heavily followed by New Scotland Yard."

Sherlock nodded, because he had a point. "Still, it would do to put the facts in."

He simply shook his head.

"I managed to wrestle the gun away from him, and ended up _seriously_ wounding him in the process."

The detective nodded his approval.

"He didn't die immediately, I'm sure. That's probably the most accurate statement."

John hung his head for a moment. "You aren't making me feel any less guilty, Sherlock."

The detective jumped slightly. "What do you feel guilty for? It was self-defense."

The doctor sighed and leaned stiffly into Sherlock's side. "Because I took a life. Someone isn't breathing because of me. Someone's son."

Sherlock appraised the condition of his blogger, rearranging the John wing of his mind palace to accommodate this new data.

John was so caring and considerate, even to his enemies.

Far from the ruthless soldier that Sherlock had first considered him to be.

He could see now how that particular aspect of the whole ordeal was weighing on the doctor.

He wanted to say that it was probably for the best, but thought against it.

"You aren't a bad person, John. Far from it."

John chuckled, ignoring the sting of his ribs. "I know. I still hate that part though."

Sherlock nodded, curling is arm gingerly around the doctor.

The whole position was new and awkward, but John seemed fine, so Sherlock decided he could suffer it.

For now.

"Scroll down, I want to keep reading."

"One of the two other men pulled a knife.

I kept struggling, and he buried it to the hilt in my thigh, effectively crippling me so that they could gag me and tie my wrists.

A fourth thug tied a bag over my head and dragged me into a van.

I heard them fretting over how bad their buddy's injury was.

The car ride was spent with me—quite literally—in the dark, before being out of a van and tossed against a wall.

From there I was shackled, arms and legs splayed in an X.

I was like this for what felt like hours, until the bag was ripped from my head.

I blinked into the suddenly glaring light to see a dark figure standing just outside my circle of light, phone out.

He had an American accent, which confused me at first, as I didn't know of any Americans that Sherlock had managed to piss of.

Then again, who hasn't he managed to piss of?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Really? Is that necessary?"

John tilted his head and smiled softly. "You said that you wanted the truth."

The detective laughed.

"The American, who I later came to know as Victor Trevor—"

"Is it okay if I use his name?" John sounded genuinely concerned.

Sherlock nodded his approval. "Yea, it's kind of needed, I think. Besides, the people who know what I—What he is to me, they already know this story."

The doctor could barely contain the rolling in his stomach.

"Keep going, John."

"—was threatening Sherlock over the phone, ransoming me out.

Obviously, this is a completely ineffective method of getting something from Sherlock as:

A) Sherlock does not cater to criminals.

B) He's a bloody genius. You are not going to trick him into giving you something by threatening ME. Honestly.

C) Who the hell has £10,000 just lying around?

D) Did I mention that it's Sherlock Holmes we're talking about here?"

"That is completely false! The best way to get to me is through you. You know that!"

Again, John let out a long suffering sigh. "I know, Sherlock. I'm your biggest weakness. I remember… well, err, the Fall."

Both men paused at that.

"But telling the WORLD that is not the best option, now is it?"

Sherlock had to admit, it really wasn't.

"Fine. Lie to them."

"The call ended with me attempting to tell Sherlock not to bother, which, of course, resulted in me screaming into my gag.

Trevor didn't like that idea.

So after a really rather generic speech over how much better he was—and a few more instances of physical assault—he decided it was time to call Sherlock again.

The time limit was set, the address given, and Sherlock managed to destroy my phone at the end of the call.

Victor taunted me and threatened me again, and when I failed to respond to his liking, he drugged me."

"Alright, I know the story from here." Sherlock's voice was subdued, and the way he was clutching at John made it clear that he didn't want to read any further.

"That's alright. It's just a rough draft anyway. I'll flesh it out and make it a bit more coherent later."

The detective simply nodded. He leaned in to kiss John's cheek.

There was heavy air over the two of them now, neither one knowing what to say.

Finally, it was John who broke the silence. "You know, I really hate being cooped up in here. Do you think we could go out for a bit?"

"You can barely move, John. The last thing you need to be doing is going out."

John looked up at Sherlock pleadingly.

"No."

Damn those eyes.

"Here, how about a compromise?"

John nodded. "I'm listening."

"I'll go rent us a few movies, and pick up some food, and then we can watch them."

Now John was intrigued. "You, Sherlock Holmes, are going to have a movie night?"

The detective shrugged. "I have nothing better to do."

John shrugged, and then smiled.

"Alright, but don't take too long or I may have to call Harry back here."

Sherlock's face fell into a mask of horror. "I'll be quick."

He dashed into his room and dressed quickly, bounding out the door before John could manage to turn around.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock sprinted down the street, popping into the nearest shop, snagging the first remotely-interesting-looking looking movies from the shelves before grabbing a box of John's favorite popcorn and rushing his way through checkout.

He was back at Baker Street before John had managed to curl up on the couch.

The doctor turned in his seat, surprised at the sudden reappearance of the detective. "Bloody hell, Sherlock! Did you fly?"

The detective huffed, kicking out of his shoes and dumping the DVDs onto the couch. He rushed into the kitchen, starting the popcorn while peeling out of John's coat.

"No, of course not. It's hardly my fault that you're inefficient in your shopping routine."

The doctor rolled his eyes and glanced over at the stack of movies. His mouth fell open in shock as he shuffled through the titles.

"Sherlock?"

The detective watched the popcorn spinning, willing it to hurry up.

The doctor read the back of the first film, his eyes wide with horror. "Sherlock!"

The detective jumped, his head whipping to the doctor's direction. "What, John? What is it?"

The doctor held the first case up. "The Human Centipede?"

The second case. "Paranormal Activity?"

The third. "Zombieland? Really, Sherlock, I had no idea you were into horror."

The doctor read the back of the last one. "Or comedy, for that matter."

Sherlock stood there, silent.

He had had no intention of grabbing any sort of horror films.

He hated horror films.

This was not good.

Best make it look intentional.

"You know I have no opinion in cinematic matters, John. I just grabbed the first three disks that looked remotely interesting and left."

There.

Not entirely lying, now are we?

The doctor rolled his eyes. He took the first case and threw it onto the table.

"Well, one thing's for certain. There is no way in hell you can convince me to watch the Human Centipede."

Sherlock picked up the case and hid his revulsion under a mask of contempt. "It's completely fictional, John." A pause as he sat the case down and superstitiously covered it with a stray file. "That being said, I can understand your reaction to it. The premise of it is abhorrent."

John managed to hide his smirk.

He had seen the horror written plainly on the detective's face.

Another time to tease him for that, though.

"This one doesn't look too bad though."

He handed the detective Paranormal Activity and he simply nodded.

It really didn't look too terrible.

Maybe he could handle it?

The microwave rang, forcing the detective to jump, if ever so slightly.

"Sounds like the popcorn is done."

John grinned.

Sherlock?

Stating the obvious?

This is going to be fun.

"A bit overdone, by the smell of it. Anyway. I'll put the movie in, and you get the popcorn?"

The detective shook his head. "Just stay put, I'll handle this. No need for you to jar your ribs or anything."

The doctor rolled his eyes as Sherlock rushed back into the kitchen.

He heard the popcorn being poured into a huge bowl, the fridge open and two cans being removed, before Sherlock was back in the living room.

The detective put the food and drinks onto the table before pulling the telly to where it could be seen and popping in John's selected movie.

He scurried back to the couch, flopping down beside his blogger, who then expertly flicked a blanket over the two of them.

Sherlock pulled the bowl of popcorn onto the couch between them and handed John his soda.

"There. I believe that this does it."

John looked around, frowning at the one lamp that was still on. "Lights."

"Pardon?"

"The lights are still on, Sherlock. You can't watch a scary movie with the lights on. That's a rule."

He watched the panic and fear flick through the detective's eyes.

"Oh, yes, of course."

Reluctantly. he stood, flicking off the lights.

"And the curtains."

The detective glared at him, but did as he was asked, shutting out the last vestiges of light in the room, save the glow of the television screen.

He settled onto the couch once more, noticeably closer to his blogger than before.

John smirked and started the film.

"There is no way that this is based off of a true story."

John smirked.

The film continued, Sherlock's nervousness fading into genuine contempt.

"Who in their right mind names their child 'Micah'?"

"Says Sherlock Holmes."

"I didn't choose my name. If I'd picked, I'd have a normal name. Like John. That's a good name."

The doctor rolled his eyes, but smiled at the comment none the less.

"Filming themselves sleeping? What good is that going to—" Sherlock stiffened and the word's died in his throat, as footsteps pounded across the screen. "—A—ah, against supernatural entities…"

John allowed a full blown smile, shoveling a fistful of popcorn into his mouth to hide his laughter.

A few more moments and the detective relaxed a little.

"A psychic? Honesty? How stupid are these people?"

"You know they're fictional characters, right? Ghosts aren't real."

Sherlock huffed. "Yes, that's painfully obvious, John. I was just saying that if some sort of creature was around, I wouldn't go after some obvious quack of a psychic, I'd search for someone who hunts these sorts of things."

Another pause.

"Oh, he has to be crazy. A demon? Really?"

John simply shook his head.

The next hour was laced with Sherlock jumping and barely stifling his frightened gasps, intertwined with steadily decreasing commentary on the absurdity of the plot.

As things grew gradually more intense in the film, Sherlock grew closer to John, nearly curled into his lap by the time the end drew near.

Sherlock nearly shrieked as the protagonist's body was flung at the camera, and John sat up, startled. It was one thing to find his discomfort at the film amusing, but this was disconcerting. "Sherlock. Hey, hey. It's alright. It's just a movie." He turned on the couch, ignoring his protesting ribs, and placed his hands on the detective's shoulders. In the flickering blue glow, he could read the barely concealed fear on his partner's features. "It's just a film Sherlock. None of it's real."

The detective nodded, closing his eyes in an attempt to regain his composure.

This was humiliating.

Ridiculous.

He was a grown man.

Sherlock Holmes, for god's sake.

He'd faced down knives and torture and faking his own demise.

He should NOT be frightened by a pathetic horror film.

John could read the struggle all over the detective's face. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around the detective and drew him to his chest, rubbing slow circles on his back.

Sherlock resented the comfort.

He loathed having to need it in the first place.

But John was so soothing.

And he was more than a little freaked out by the film.

"There, there. What do you say we watch something else, yea?"

Sherlock nodded his head, sitting up.

His cheeks were pink from the embarrassment of the whole ordeal, and his hands were still slightly shaky from fear at the film. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to choose what we watch next."

John laughed, handing the detective the remote before leaning back into the couch.

Sherlock set the remnants of their movie snacks on to the floor before placing his head in the doctor's lap.

They remained like that—Sherlock flipping through channels, droning on about how dull or boring or inaccurate everything was, while John carded his fingers through the detectives hair—for hours, simply reveling in the warmth of each other's company.


	16. Chapter 16

A few hours passed in that way—the two of them simply enjoying each other's company—before Sherlock drifted into a light slumber.

The doctor chuckled slightly at the sight of the detective snoring on his lap, stifling a yawn of his own before looking at his options.

He could either A: get up and drag a half asleep Sherlock to bed.

Or B: Stay put and fall asleep himself.

Considering that option A involved a lot more physical exertion than the good doctor was capable of at the moment, John chose option B.

A bit of awkward fumbling and some painful contortion later, he was sort of lying on the couch with Sherlock's head still stubbornly glued to his lab, the union Jack pillow behind his head, and a blanket covering both of them.

Part of him wanted to laugh at the sight of the world's only consulting detective completely enveloped in an orange knit blanket.

Another part reveled in the warmth that such a moment could exist at all.

Sleep came quickly to him after that.

Barely half an hour later, noises began to disturb the peaceful silence of the flat.

Sherlock could hear it. The jingling of keys.

Muttered, nonsensical words.

The heavy thumping of sluggish footsteps.

He attempted to jolt upright, but was caught under some sort of haze.

His actions were slowed, dull, restricted.

The thumping continued, followed by a more high pitched muttering.

Sherlock was panicking now, his limbs flailing in an effort to free himself.

He managed only to roll off of the couch with a shout, completely entangled in the blanket.

John jumped, awakened by the sudden flurry of motion.

He saw the detective flailing about on the floor, hissing obscenities under his breath.

"John. Fuck. John! Fucking help me!"

The doctor found himself caught between laughing hysterically and helping the detective.

He managed both.

"Geez, Sherlock, quit throwing your arms about so I can get you out of that blanket."

The detective froze, his body impossibly still. "Blanket?"

John burst into a fit of giggles then, one hand holding his aching ribs while the other reached down to untangle Sherlock from his confines.

The resulting image did nothing to still his laughter.

Sherlock was a mess. His skin was ghostly white, mouth and eyes frozen wide in shock, hair an uncontrollable jumble, twice it's normal size after contact with the blanket.

"John."

The doctor held up a hand, begging for a moment to calm himself, but every time he opened his eyes, another wave of giggles hit him.

"John, this is serious." His face was tight, and he lowered his voice to a whisper. "I think that something is in the house."

The doctor's countenance shifted directly to soldier. "What?"

Sherlock held a finger to his mouth and closed his eyes. "Listen."

There was more shuffling and a moan, followed by the varied pitches of muttering.

Sherlock began to shake, a barely perceptible tremor in his jaw.

John, on the other hand, blushed furiously and gazed up at the ceiling, one hand pinching his nose. "Sherlock."

The man looked at him, his features stony. "What, John? Should we not go and investigate? Or call for help? Where is your gun? I heard that salt can—"

He giggled again, a blush spreading across his cheeks. "It's Mrs Hudson, Sherlock."

The detective paled, confusion etching his brow. "What?"

The doctor nodded his head to the door and raised his eyebrows. "It's Mrs Hudson and—err—a umm—a guest."

Sherlock froze once more, giving a minute shake of the head before his entire face took on a look of pure disgust. "No. John, you must be wrong. There is no way that Mrs Hudson-"

John gave the detective a firm glare. "Do you want to go down and check?"

Sherlock pulled yet another disgusted expression, forcing the doctor to wrap himself up against the pain of his laughter.

A crash as something below fell to the floor, followed by a disturbingly loud bark of laughter and the twittering giggle of Mrs Hudson.

The doctor rubbed the back of his neck, a huge grin plastered onto his face. "I know one thing. I will not be able to look at her the same way in the morning."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, crossing his arms indigently. "Gaining knowledge about one's sex life should not be the basis for a change in one's opinion of another. Such data is trivial and unquantifiable. One should not judge based on what another does to find pleasure. Within reason of course. If she was out murdering people to—"

There was a barely muffled scream from below, and both men blanked.

"John. Make it stop."

The doctor sighed, pulling himself to stand with a hiss of pain. "My room. Now."

Sherlock shook his head. "You are in no state to make it up the stairs, much less engage in any—"

John's eyes went wide. "No, no. Not tonight. God, I wish, but not tonight. No, it's quieter in my room. We shouldn't be able to hear a thing."

The detective wanted to argue, or suggest they simply ask the woman to stop, but the sound of wood scraping the floor had him scooping his blogger into his arms and running up the steps to his room.

John yelped in surprise. "Shit, I always forget that you can do that."

Sherlock allowed a small smirk, the distance silencing the disturbing noises from below.

He set the doctor gently onto the bed, turning on the bedside lamp, before settling himself on the opposite side of the bed, his back to John. "I have never felt so wrong in my entire life."

John chuckled, his hand reaching out to gently stroke the detective's hand. "I take it that you've never had the misfortune of walking in on your parents having sex."

Sherlock shot the doctor a filthy glare, disgust once again filling his features. "No. Why on earth would I have done that?"

John managed a shrug. "It happens. That's kind of what this feels like actually. As disturbing as it is, she's still a human. She has—"

The detective groaned, ruffling his hair before flopping backwards, his head resting once more on John's lap. "If you finish that sentence with the word 'needs', I will make it my personal mission to make a study of how human bone fractures mend out of your rib cage."

John put his hands up, settling them back to their earlier task of combing through the detective's hair.

"It'll take me weeks to erase this."

The doctor shrugged once more. "It could be worse."

Sherlock shook his head. "What could possibly be worse than being subjected to listening to your landlady shack up with someone she picked up off the street?"

There was a pause before the detective slapped his hand over John's mouth.

"Don't answer that."

The doctor nearly laughed again, only to yawn against the detective's palm.

"Tired?"

"Yea."

"Boring."

John rolled his eyes, yawning once more while snuggling against his pillow.

"You can go back downstairs, if you like."

He felt the detective shudder. "No thank you. I'd prefer watching you sleep."

The doctor tried not to think about how awkward that phrase felt, opting instead to take it as a compliment.

"Alright then. Good night Sherlock."

The detective moved from his place on the bed, clicking the lamp off before scooting up to curl gently against the doctor's side.

"Night, John."

A light kiss was shared before Sherlock flung a blanket over the doctor and watched as he fell once more into slumber.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock awoke from an uneasy sleep to find that, once again, daylight was upon them.

He stretched languidly, the kinks in his neck from the previous night cracking as he moved.

He heard a soft grown from beside him and looked over to see John rubbing his eyes tiredly

"Mornin' Sh'lock. 's early."

The detective sat up, fumbling for his phone on the nightstand. "It's nearly two in the afternoon. I'd say it's far from early."

The doctor shrugged, wincing at the tightness of his ribs.

"It's time for your medicine, I take it."

The doctor nodded, pulling himself upright, his hand curled around his middle while his expression screamed pain. "No shit."

After casting a reproachful glare at John, Sherlock flopped off of the bed, scrambling down the stairs to grab the pill bottle from the counter.

He froze as he entered the living room, the sight of Lestrade—sprawled out in his chair, his legs crossed and posture relaxed—more than a little unexpected.

"Good morning, sunshine."

The DI pointed to the door, a smirk glued firmly across his features.

"Sleep in with the Missus?"

Sherlock clenched and unclenched his jaw, attempting to work out any emotional reaction from his features. "I do not have a 'Missus.'"

He put air quotes around the word and Lestrade grinned.

John's voice drifted down the stairs; the telltale creaking of bed springs accompanied his words. "Sherlock. Is someone here?"

The consulting detective snatched the pill bottle up. "No. I'll be right—"

"Morning, John!"

Sherlock suppressed a groan as he heard muttered cursing from the top of the steps.

"Greg?"

The cursing dissolved into heavy footsteps and he heard John slowly descend the steps.

He held his breath, almost painfully, until a pale and slightly shaken John Watson appeared.

"Shit, mate, you look dreadful," said Lestrade.

John rolled his eyes, gazing longingly at his chair while standing stock still by the doorway. "Thanks. I'm doing better, actually. Sherlock's been doing a pretty good job with me."

The DI nodded, his gaze flicking between the two of them. "I can see that."

The doctor took the container of pills from his detective, popping off the lid and downing his recommended dosage.

'What did you need, Lestrade?" Sherlock muttered, his jaw locked tight.

"Your help. We have a—"

The detective shook his head, crossing his arms defiantly. "Not interested."

Lestrade gaped at him, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips. "Sherlock! You haven't even heard what the case is about."

"Doesn't matter. John needs—"

The blogger stepped forward, the hand he placed on Sherlock's arm silencing him instantly. "Sherlock. Go. Finish the case. I'm fine here, you know. I've got my meds." He shook the bottle. "And my telly. There isn't really anything else I need at the moment."

Sherlock turned on him, his silvery eyes searching. "But your wounds. Surely you don't think that I—"

"Would want to leave me here? No." He took a deep breath, blocking out the image of an open mouthed Lestrade beside him. "You need to go. Get out of the house. Solve a quick case, pick up some food and severed limbs, and then come back later. I'll be fine."

The detective sighed. "Alright. Fine. I'll go get some clothes on."

He glared over at Lestrade, who had only then taken in the sight of Sherlock clad only in his tight black pants.

The DI blushed, his gaze flicking to the ceiling as he swallowed.

"Yes, I do believe that would be preferable."

Sherlock shrugged, kissing John's bruised forehead possessively before disappearing into his room.

There were a few seconds of Lestrade and John simply standing there awkwardly, the DI rocking on his heels while John pursed his lips.

One glance at each other and they broke into fit of amicable laughter.

"You really do look horrible though. It didn't look so bad at first."

The doctor shrugged. "I was more covered, if you do remember. How is our Mr Victor?"

Lestrade shuffled his feet a bit, his hands folding behind his back. "Yea, I need to talk to you about that later."

John opened his mouth to ask for the information directly when Sherlock emerged, his clothing pressed and immaculate.

"John, I'll send Mrs Hudson up to keep you company while I'm—"

Both minds flashed back to the raucous sounds of their matronly landlady's amorous activities the night before.

"Actually, Molly, or—"

"I'll do it."

Sherlock's eyes hardened as he glared at the DI.

"I'm actually off duty. Felton just sent me down here because he knew that I could talk you into it."

Sherlock made a move to storm back to his room in the face of the deception, but one glance at his blogger's stern expression and he groaned. "Fine. This had better be a damn good case."

Lestrade smirked once more. "Triple homicide. Three floor home, three locked rooms. No visible cause of death."

Sherlock's brow twitched slightly at the prospect of an actually intriguing case. "Fine. I'll be back soon." He nearly growled at the last word, his scarf and coat flying from their hooks in his haste to get the day over with.

As soon as the door had shut, John staggered over to the coffee table, collapsing onto it with a shuddering breath.

"Watson! John, what is it?"

The doctor held up a hand, begging for a moment while his fingers fumbled at the bindings on his bandage. As soon as he unfastened it, it fell slightly away, sticking to him through the friction of the fabric and the sweat of the past day of wearing it. "A little help?"

The DI froze, his mind barely comprehending what he was being asked. "What?"

John huffed an annoyed sigh, hanging his head. "God, sometimes I swear Sherlock is right about you lot." He looked up, once again fumbling with the bandage. "Help me get this bloody thing off!"

Lestrade moved forward, quickly shucking the shirt from John's shoulders before unwrapping the bandage from his chest.

Both men hissed painfully through their teeth as the wrappings gave away.

John, from the pain of the fresh air hitting his damaged sin, and Lestrade from seeing the expanse of the good doctor's torso molted with blooms of black and brown.

Lestrade had to look away for a moment, gathering his nerves to look back.

Years of investigating gruesome murders had yet to harden his stomach against the wounds incurred by those who are still living.

Still breathing.

"Greg, you alright? You look a bit pale."

The DI nodded, his gaze coming back to meet John's face. "Err, yea, just not good with wounds. Why couldn't Sherlock do this?" The note of annoyance was not lost on the blogger.

"It's bad enough, him babying me over what wounds are clearly visible. I knew that this—" He gestured at his stomach and chest, where you could almost make out the boot prints. "—would look horrible after the time that's passed. You presented the perfect opportunity to get him off my back for a moment."

Lestrade nodded, his gaze going back to the man's chest as if it were some macabre work of art. "I'll let it breath for a few moments. Let myself breath. Anything you need?" A slightly disgusted edge was still in his voice.

"Yes, actually. There's a big medical bag in Sherlock's room, could you fetch it for me?"

The DI nodded, scrambling out of the room in search of the item.

He returned a moment later, the bag in tow, a curious expression written across his features. "Where on earth did you manage to snag equipment like this?"

John smiled before rolling his eyes.

"Let's see, who in this great nation has access to nearly unlimited funds and military technology, and also has a vested interest in my well-being?"

A pause.

"Mycroft. Got it." There was a mumbled phrase that sounded suspiciously like "My gifts are better," but the doctor wasn't sure. "What do you need?"

John thought for a moment, his mind condensing technical terms into descriptions or common phrases. "I need a large packet of sanitary gauze, the clear tape stuff, and some of that antibiotic ointment."

The detective fished the items out, handing them to the doctor. "I'll be back in a bit." John pushed himself gingerly from his seat and slowly made his way to the bathroom, leaving Lestrade behind to entertain himself.

_Well, this will be a fun day._


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock received a message shortly after he stepped onto the street.

Skeltons Lane.

- Felton

The detective considered insuring that the DI knew he was on his way, in exactly the manner he felt appropriate, but thought against it.

"John would be giving me one of those reproachful glares by now," he said aloud.

The woman walking past him turned. "Pardon?"

Sherlock turned, waving her away. "Not you."

She scoffed at him, and he could see that she was debating whether or not to smack him, before she simply stormed away.

The detective rolled his eyes, stepping onto the curb, his hand outstretched to wave down a cab.

After the first few passed him by, the detective growled impatiently.

Two more passed by, and Sherlock seriously considered walking the nine miles.

Finally he caved, stepping into the flow of traffic, forcing the oncoming cars to screech to a halt.

He strode purposefully to the first cab in line, wrenching open the door while flashing the driver one of Lestrade's ID badges.

"Official business. Skeltons Lane."

The driver looked at him skeptically.

"Sir, that's over a half hour 'way. Are you—" One glance at the storm cloud sitting in the back seat silenced him. "Right sir."

The cab pulled onto the street; the infuriatingly slow pace had Sherlock nearly crawling out of his skin.

He pulled out his phone, shot a quick message to John, and waited.

_**SHSHSHSHSH**_

John Watson sat in the bathroom gritting his teeth in pain.

The pain killers that he had taken had yet to remove the edge of the pain that was gripping his torso.

He was seated on the toilet, Sherlock's pajama bottoms pooled around his ankles, his eyes closed and aimed skyward.

"God help me."

With that the doctor gripped the clear plastic tape, ripping it from his skin with a hiss of pain.

He glanced down to see that the stitches in his leg were healing nicely, the skin around the wound only slightly irritated.

John let out a sigh of relief, a pointless thanks being sent to the heavens as he carefully cleansed the wound.

He pressed his fingers against the edges of the wound, carefully holding it in place while he wiped it with antiseptic.

With that done, John considered his options.

1) He could redress and go back into the living room and socialize, despite his grimy appearance and the pain he was in.

2) He could send Greg away, make some tea, and lounge around the flat naked.

3) He could draw a bath and let his bruised body soak while Greg had free reign of the flat.

After a few moments of deliberation (option two was extremely appealing), he settled on the third.

Bracing himself against the edge of the sink, he slowly rose to standing, only to hobble to the bathtub.

Coaxed, no doubt, by his cursing, the tap finally gave way. John wriggled it to the right temperature, letting the water run and fill the tub.

At the sound of running water, Greg let himself slide into the couch, his arms splayed over the back.

It felt good to relax and let Sherlock handle the work that he, no doubt, would be picking up otherwise.

He let out a sigh, his head flopping onto the back of the couch with a soft thud.

One that was followed by a louder thud, accompanied with the frantic splashing of water and some very loud and colourful cursing.

Greg hung his head, counting to three before rising slowly.

He knocked lightly on the bathroom door.

"You alright, mate?"

John floundered in the tub, trying to bring himself upright despite the lack of air in his lungs and the searing pain in his sides.

He managed a squeak and a growl before pulling himself up enough to scream, "Fucking—come 'ere."

Greg opened the door and stepped in with one hand remaining on the doorknob, the other over his eyes.

"What do you need?"

The doctor looked up at the DI disbelievingly, his chest heaving for breath.

"I... Oh, for god's sake... Open your fucking eyes."

Lestrade cracked open his eyes slowly, keeping his gaze firmly above John's head.

"Do you see the situation I'm in?"

The DI unwillingly pulled his gaze downward, taking in his friends ashen features, his arms shaking against the edges of the tub.

His middle was hunched up, as if he were holding his stomach in with his knees.

Then there was the blood.

The water in the tub was tinged pink around him, blood blooming around him in a ring.

Lestrade felt bile rise in his throat, and he desperately fought down the urge to run.

John could see the way the DI was swaying, how his own features had turned pale.

"Greg?"

Lestrade braced himself against the wall, taking deep breaths. "'m fine. Tell me, um, what to help… how to do."

The doctor took a deep breath of his own, gritting his teeth against the pain. "Close your eyes. Deep breaths."

Greg complied, taking deep breaths to calm his nerves.

"You need to reach in and drain the tub."

The DI shook his head, a hand flying to his mouth as his eyes widened in disgust.

"I can't move, Greg. You need to drain the tub."

Greg nodded, closing his eyes before plunging an arm into the water, grabbing the chain and yanking before recoiling violently from the tub.

So violently, in fact, that he stumbled backwards and collided with the opposite wall, eliciting a decidedly embarrassing squeak.

Had it not been for the sharp pain in his side, the doctor may have been tempted to laugh.

"Good. Now. Towel by the hook. Bring it here."

Lestrade leaned over, grabbing the towel and tossing it at John, who quickly dried his arms and hair.

"Now can you help me up?"

Greg walked over, gently gripping the shaking doctor and helping him stand.

And few moments of slipping and cursing managed to see John back on the toilet, and Lestrade sitting on the edge of the tub, taking deep breaths.

The doctor muttered under his breath as he wiped the blood from his torn stitches.

"Greg, can you get the suture from the cupboard?"

No response.

"Greg?"

John looked up to see the DI braced against the tub, his head in his hands as he was bent double.

"God. Have you never seen a wound before?"

Lestrade looked up, his elbows still braced on his knees. "Yeah, on dead people." He pointed at the doctor, his eyes avoiding any of his wounds. "You aren't dead."

John sighed. "No, I'm not. Thank god for that." He managed a pained chuckle. "That means, though, that I need to tend to my wounds, not just examine them, alright?"

Lestrade ignored the patronizing tone that the doctor was using, focusing instead on the task at hand. He stood slowly, fumbling through the cupboard, found the sutures, and he quickly passed them to John.

With the deftness of a surgeon, John stitched the wound back together quickly, swabbing it once more with antiseptic and re-wrapping it cleanly.

Lestrade watched with a sort of detached fascination, stuck between disgusted horror and wonderment at the capabilities of the doctor.

"Alright, now. Could you fetch me some pants, or a set of pajamas or something?"

Greg nodded, ducking out to Sherlock's room.

He grabbed the first bundle of clothing that he saw and threw them at the doctor. "Anything else?" Lestrade was fidgeting, his discomfort and fear putting him on edge.

"Go make a cuppa. I've got—"

Before he had finished his sentence, the DI was gone, glad to be away.

John spent the next ten minutes fighting his way into a pair of Sherlock's boxers and one of his T-shirts, not bothering with the bottoms.

He emerged to the smell of fresh tea and saw Greg sprawled out on the couch, his eyes closed.

John grabbed his mug and meandered into the living-room, settling himself gingerly into the chair adjacent to the couch.

They sat there in silence of a moment, before both of them burst into laughter.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade is terrified of a few wounds?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "Captain John Watson fell into the bathtub?"

John grinned as he curled an arm around his stomach. "Oi! I'm injured, I have an excuse."

"You're a doctor. You should know better than to try and bathe yourself in your state."

John's grin widened, and he sipped his tea. "Touche."

And a few more moments passed in amicable silence.

"You know, Sherlock can never know about this."

The doctor tilted his head curiously, despite the twinge in his neck. "Why? I think he'd find the whole thing hilarious. After all, he does love to have proof of how stupid I am."

Lestrade smirked. "I wouldn't be too sure. Mycroft was talking about how Sherlock once had a kitten, a little black one that he loved, and he wouldn't let anyone else touch it."

John's brow furrowed in confusion. "What does his have to do with—"

Lestrade held up a hand. "Myc tried to hold it once, and Sherlock saw him—mind you he couldn't have been more than four or five—but he was so upset that someone else had touched his kitten that he locked it in a box to keep it safe."

The doctor had figured out the rest by now, but he allowed the DI to continue nonetheless.

"He forgot that it needed air. He accidently smothered the poor thing to death because someone else touched it."

John pursed his lips and nodded before drumming his fingers along the arm of the chair. "Right then, I''ll be wary of any boxes that Sherlock brings home."

Greg rolled his eyes. "All I'm saying is that you need to be careful."

John sighed, settling his now empty mug on his lap. "And you need to spend a little less time with Mycroft. You're starting to sound like him."

Lestrade inclined his head and chuckled. "I suppose so. Though I can't tell you how relieved I am that you two are finally doing something about all of this sexual tension."

John laughed at that, a deep laugh that had him gripping his sides once more. "There we go. That's Greg Lestrade."

"Good Lord, what would the world be like if we turned into our Holmes's?"

John shivered. "I'd hate to think. I mean, two consulting ducks wouldn't be nearly as bad as two British Governments."

Lestrade laughed again. "Yeah, I love Myc, don't get me wrong, but one is enough."

The DI's phone went off in his pocket.

"That's probably him telling you his thoughts on the matter."

Greg opened the message and blushed at its contents, instantly snapping the phone shut and tossing it onto the table.

"You, uhh, you were right."

John's mind spun at the thought of what the message could have contained, but he quickly decided that he really didn't want to know.

They both sat there for a moment more, there conversation pulling, before the sound of ringing filled the room.

**Author's Note: Here is where I reassure you that I am not an idiot, and that I know what it seems like. Yes, this is John and Lestrade alone together. Yes John is naked. No there is nothing romantic here. No there will not be. John and Lestrade are friends, a BrOTP of mine, nothing more. I should also like to point out that yes, you can see wounds on dead people and still be freaked out by them on the living. And yes, John would be a stubborn idiot and think that he can care for himself despite his injuries. Anyway, sorry for ranting.**


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock nearly leapt from the cab as soon as it hit the curb.

He turned and tossed a wad of cash at the cabby, not bothering to check the amount, before striding purposefully to the police barricade.

Detective Inspector Felton met him at the tape, his face visibly relaxing as he caught sight of the consulting detective.

"Mr Holmes. Glad to see that you were able to join us."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sucking under the tape and glaring at the DI. "Where are the bodies?"

The abrupt statement threw the man off-kilter. He stuttered and pulled himself up, his wiry frame still much shorter than the detective's. "Crass and to the point. Your reputation precedes you."

Sherlock swooped past the forensics workers in the entryway, forcing the DI to follow behind him.

"Three bodies, one on each level, the rooms were locked when they were found—" The short man paused in his speech, his squinting gaze sweeping the room. "Say, where's your assistant? That doctor fellow. Oh what's his name, Witherton, Washington—"

Sherlock spun around, his features stoic despite the fire in his eyes. "Watson. Doctor John Hamish Watson. And, seeing as he was kidnapped and brutally tortured oh, say, two days ago by an ex-lover of mine, I thought it best to let him stay at home and rest. Now can we kill the small talk and please return to the actual work at hand?" He spat the words with enough venom for the pasty faced man to duck his head and blush.

In fact, everyone in the room looked guilty or apologetically in one way or another. Some stood wide-eyed, while others hung their heads. One man ducked out of the room quickly, so as not to invoke the anger of the consulting detective

"Yes. Yes, of course." He quickly handed Sherlock a pair of gloves before leading him to the first room.

And a woman was sprawled across the floor, her skin tinged blue in the dim light.

There were no signs of a struggle, no visible marks on her body.

Sherlock's gaze swept the room.

Window.

He swept over to it, his eyes level with the latch.

Older style closing mechanism, could easily be manipulated with a thin blade.

Closed and latched, but the seal has a slight gap to it.

Obviously the point of entry.

His eyes continued their search.

Clothes on the rack.

He leaned in, sniffed them.

Worn twice, but freshened.

Students then, needing to conserve funds.

Not financially motivated.

Bed stand.

Books stacked at an unstable height, post it notes covering every clear space.

Water stained ring on the corner.

Sherlock looked closer.

Stain has multiple layers.

Same glass, multiple nights.

Drinks water before bed.

Glass is missing.

He fell to his knees, the resounding thud startling the DI.

"Holmes?"

He ignored him, flattening himself against the hardwood floor and sweeping his hand across the floor.

Journal, ignorable.

Not a personal attack.

Three magazines.

Porn.

Three pairs of shoes and—

"She was asphyxiated."

DI Felton paused in his fidgeting.

"Pardon? Did you just say that she was asphyxiated?"

Sherlock pushed himself up from the floor, his hand outstretched.

In his palm rested a small clear plastic ball.

"Your killer filled her nightly glass of water with these. They're nearly invisible to the naked eye. She would have swallowed them without thinking. By the time that she would have noticed, them, it would have been too late."

The DI shuddered. "That's twisted."

Sherlock handed a forensics specialist the ball.

"Twisted maybe, but brilliant. A nearly seamless way to kill her without her struggling."

He wiped a finger over the headboard and frowned.

"The killer's cleaned this room, which confirms that she was not familiar with the victim."

"She?"

Sherlock nodded, kneeling beside the victim on the floor.

"Yes. Wouldn't have been a man. The victim was slight enough to have been easily subdued by a man. It suggests that the murderer was smaller than her, which would almost certainly be another woman. And judging by the care taken in removing trace evidence, this was premeditated, but she was not the ultimate target."

DI Felton balked at the detective. "Wait, just wait a bloody moment. How'd you get any of that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood. "It's all right in front of you. Really, even Lestrade could have seen that."

The DI bristled at that, his face reddening in anger at the comparison.

Sherlock shrugged, striding purposefully from the room and up the steps, barging into the second crime scene.

Within sixty second he had come to the conclusion that she too had not been the intended victim, and had passed in the same manner as the first.

It was only when he came to the last room, and saw that she had died in exactly the same manner, that he became confused.

"This isn't right. They obviously are not personal targets. All evidence suggests that they were collateral damage to the demise of another. Are you sure that these are the only bodies?"

The Detective Inspector gawked at him for a moment, his hands out to the side. "Yes, I'm sure. Do you fucking need more bodies? Isn't three murders enough?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, plopping down on the edge of one of the beds. "Yes, because something simply isn't adding up. A fourth body would be the most logical thing to have. Be we haven't one, have we?" He drummed his fingers together. "I suppose I should thank you. I've finally got an interesting case."

With that he waved the DI away, though the man simply stood there. "What the fuck do you think you're doing? Are you just going to set there on the dead man's bed all evening?"

Sherlock glanced up from his trance-like state. "No." He stood smoothly, striding once more from the room in a flurry of coattails, only to pop his head around the corner with a smirk. "Oh, and do watch your language, you're reminding me of John on his bad days."

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket as he flew down the stairs, pressing a long unused-number into the keys.

_Finally, an interesting day._


	20. Chapter 20

John's head turned sharply towards the direction of the sound, his face contorted with confusion. "Err, Greg?"

The DI nodded, standing up. "Where is it? I'll get it."

The doctor looked at him, his bruised cheeks hollowed as he pursed his lips. "You know, I have no idea. I honestly don't know what that is."

Greg meandered to the sound, and no sooner than he had discovered an old wall mounted house phone hidden behind a stack of old newsprint did the ringing stop, and his own phone started vibrating.

John rolled his eyes. "God, it must be Sherlock."

The DI nodded, answering the call. "Hello."

Sherlock's irritated baritone crackled through the line. "I take it you are completely incompetent as a detective, considering that you could not even find a simple phone."

The DI sighed, running a weary hand over his face. "What do you need, Sherlock?"

The detective entered the cab, giving it directions to Baker Street.

As soon as they pulled away from the curb, he turned back to the phone. "Hand the phone to John."

There was a brief pause as Greg moved to do just that when he heard a muffled shout through the phone.

"Wait, stop." Sherlock worried his bottom lips slightly before taking a deep breath.

"Sherlock?"

"Don't pass me over to John yet."

The DI stopped, agitation clear on his features.

"How is he... Greg? He won't tell me if anything's wrong. And he's exceedingly clever with disguising pain. He wouldn't lie to you though."

Lestrade ran his eyes, appraising over John.

"He's bruised, battered, and tender. Looks like he's been pressed by a steamroller. But he can move a little without grimacing, and he can still hold a mug. My overall opinion? He needs some time to heal up and a damn good shag."

The detective's eyes widened and his cheeks warmed.

John balked at the DI, the blush making the bruising look appear all that much worse for wear.

Sherlock hummed, contemplative. "Thank you, Lestrade. I appreciate your input."

The DI smirked at the statement, the closest thing to a compliment that the consulting detective gave. "Alright. Here's John."

Lestrade tossed the phone into John's laptop, earning him a pained huff.

The doctor scrambled for the phone, finally managing to get it to his ear. "Sherlock—"

"If you get your damn good shag from Lestrade before I make it home, I swear to the skull that I will lace all of your tea with arsenic."

John froze, his mind trying to process what on earth his crazy flatmate had just said. "What?"

"John, I know that you heard me very well."

"Oh, no, see, I heard you. But it didn't make any fucking sense. I'm not—"

He covered the phone with his hand and nodded for the DI to step out of the room.

As soon as he was gone, John turned back to the phone, his voice lowered, "Listen. I'm not going to shag Greg. Alright? There will be no sex with anyone until you get home. Besides, Mycroft would absolutely murder me if I slept with his Detective Inspector."

Sherlock huffed, shifting his weight on the seat, the whole topic making his skin crawl.

"Why are you even worried about that Sherlock? Is something on your mind?"

The detective peered out the window.

"You must realize, John, that I am... unaccustomed to such situations. By now, I'm sure that Lestrade's informed you of the whole kitten incident when I was five."

The doctor shook his head, smiling slightly at his near omnipotent partner. "Yeah, I'd really rather you not lock me in a box and deprive me of air, but at the very least, I know that somewhere in that brain of yours, you are capable of caring."

The detective could hear the smile in the man's voice and curled himself up in the seat, his head resting limply against the seat.

"You know, I have yet to figure out why you said yes to me in the first place. I know you've given your reasons, yet it's still a difficult thing for me to grasp."

The doctor sighed, sagging slightly into the couch despite the twinge of pain that it caused. "You're about to display your bloody timing issues again, aren't you?"

The detective smirked. "Oh, I would go so far as to guess that this situation will exasperate those issues exponentially."

"Sherlock, I really hope you're joking."

The detective broke into a wide grin in the back of the cab. "Say, for instance, right now. You've sent Lestrade out of the room at this point, but he hasn't left the flat. Obviously not, as he wouldn't risk something happening to you."

John groaned, dreading where this conversation was heading.

"You've probably bathed by now. You hate that grimy feeling you get when you haven't. It reminds you too much of your time in Afghanistan. After all, no one appreciates cleanliness like a soldier."

"Sherlock please—"

"Having had bathed, you're most likely resting on the couch, a cup of tea in hand, wearing comfortable clothing. Now. Lestrade would have had to have gotten those clothes for you after you fell into the tub and required his assistance."

The doctor's brow creased and he glanced cautiously around. "Are you—"

"Spying on you? No. That's Mycroft's job. I'm simply following logical patterns. Now you fell in the tub, so Lestrade would have brought you the most easily available clothing. I.e, one of my T-shirts and a pair of my boxers. He probably brought you some pajama bottoms as well, but you're nowhere near in good enough condition to struggle into those."

John hung his head, shaking it slightly.

"You are—"

"Fantastic? I know. Now on to what I can do to you that won't be too physically strenuous."

The doctor flushed red, his eyes widening in shock. "Sherlock!"

Greg popped his head in from the kitchen. "Everything alright?"

John nodded, putting his hand over the receiver. "Fine. 'M fine."

Lestrade simply shook his head, walking away once more.

"And then I'll—"

"Whoa, wait, Sherlock? I didn't catch that."

There was a huff as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You do know that I hate repeating myself. I said, I'm going to—"

Another, more muffled voice filtered over the line. "Oi! Hearing that once was enough, thank you! I don' needa hear it again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"And I don't like listening to that absolutely ridiculous noise that you're playing as music, but seeing as it reminds you of the daughter you clearly lost in a nasty custody battle with your ex, I've not complained about it. So if you would please go back to your ruminations on how your poor life decisions have ruined your life and the lives of those around you—"

There was a sound of screeching tires and a door slamming.

"Hold on, John, I think I'm—"

"Alright, you pretentious little prick, get the fuck out my cab."

A series of scrapes and shouts filled the line, followed by the breathy pants and thudding footfalls of Sherlock, no doubt, running for his life.

John heard the rustle as the phone was shoved into the detective's pocket, and the hollow clanking of him running on a metal catwalk.

There was some more muffled shouting and the sudden absence of as he heard flesh striking flesh.

The doctor knew better than to shout out, so he held his breath and bit his cracked lips in the hope that it was the assailant that had been injured and not Sherlock.

Please not his Sherlock.

Grunts and thuds turned back to muffled clanging and heavy panting.

Obviously Sherlock was alright.

There was a smack and a crash, followed by the plastic whump of Sherlock landing in, no doubt, a skip.

Another clang and the panting sound grew louder, echoing throughout the detective's new confines. At least, this was the scenario that John hoped for. The alternative was unbearable to consider.

Finally, after agonizing moments dragged into eternities, Sherlock spoke.

"Victor. John. Tell—"

Another pause.

"Tell Lestrade 24601. Get your things together. Send Mrs Hudson to her sister's."

More silence.

"24601, John. I love you."


	21. Chapter 21

The deafening silence of the ended call did not stop John from hearing those last words on repeat.

I love you. John, I love you.

"He loves me?"

Upon hearing John's quiet muttering, Lestrade returned to the room, only to see the doctor sitting rigidly, skin paled. "Hell John, what on earth did he say to get you to look like that?"

The doctor glanced up in his shock at his friend, his body following orders while his mind reeled. "24601."

The DI's eyes widened and he snatched his phone from John, dialing a number and then ripping off the back of his phone, tearing out the battery and stuffing the pieces haphazardly into his pockets. "Alright. Your room's upstairs, right?"

John nodded, coming back to himself. "Yes. Umm, what on earth is going on?"

Lestrade bolted up the stairs, ignoring the doctor's confusion in favour of gathering up anything and everything that he could.

When he returned, John had the med bag and a few books in his hands, his laptop bag resting on the ground beside him.

Lestrade helped him into a pair of sweat pants and his coat just in time for two black-clad women to burst into the room.

"Who the fuck are—Mycroft."

The women snatched up the gear and rushed it downstairs while Lestrade nodded, gingerly pushing the doctor out of the door.

"I'll explain in the car. Just move."

Ever the good soldier, he obeyed, allowing himself to be moved into an inconspicuous black car, focusing on Sherlock's words and not the crippling pain flooding his body.

"We're heading for a safe house, where I get to watch you pace around until that git shows up. Though I may have to stay anyway."

John nodded. "Mrs Hudson?"

"Has been informed to stay at her sister's. And before you say anything, Harry is on watch, though god knows how anyone would find her."

Another nod.

Things passed in silence for a moment.

"You still haven't told me what's going on. Sherlock said something about Victor?"

Lestrade sighed, looking nervously out the window. "I was afraid of that." He ruffled his hair slightly, looking away from the doctor.

"Victor was released into American custody this morning. I knew that that whole process had been far too fast."

John stared at him, flabbergasted. "If you knew, then why didn't you stop it?"

Lestrade threw his hands up. "Not my division. That's why I came over in the first place."

John nodded. "But you saw that Sherlock and I were alright, so you didn't think anything of it."

The DI shrugged. "You could phrase it like that, I suppose."

Another pause in conversation.

John peered out the window, his mind alight with worry.

Lestrade glanced surreptitiously at the doctor, uncomfortable with the tension in the car.

"He'll be fine, you know."

The doctor scoffed, returning his attention from the blurred scenery outside back to the DI. "How could you know that? The man can't resist danger, and I'm not with him to save his sorry ass. It's just like the fall all over again." At that, he buried his face in his hands, unable to hold it up any longer. "I should be with him, Greg. I should be by his side, protecting him from the Victors and the Moriartys and whatever the fuck fate sees fit to throw at him. But I'm not. I'm being carted away to some safe house, probably deep in the countryside somewhere, to be kept safe while he risks his neck. And I know that I'm injured, and that I'd be useless to him in my current state, but damn it, Greg, do you know how hard it is to watch the person you love put you aside while they risk life and limb? Do you know what it's like to be one step behind everyone else?"

John turned back to the window, pressing his head against the cool glass.

"He told me he loved me," he added.

Lestrade sighed, shaking his head. "John—"

"I know he was lying. I'm not that much of a fool. But he did mean to give me some sort of closure with it. He does care. And for him, that's a hell of a lot."

The DI placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder. "He does love you. When you were taken by Victor, he practically shouted that at all of Scotland Yard. And this plan, 24601, this is his plan for letting Mycroft handle things."

"Sherlock Holmes does not let others have the adventure, especially when he has a personal vendetta. It doesn't get any more personal than Victor fucking Trevor."

Lestrade shrugged.

"During the three years of the fall, Sherlock and Myc came up with a series of codes for different scenarios, should anything occur. 24601 was for if he should be compromised. The plan states that he join us at a safe house until the threat is either eliminated, or it is possible for Sherlock to handle it quickly. Though, the original involved a lot of running and changing houses and names and you having the code name Cosette for some unknown reason."

John chuckled. "I take it Mycroft is a big Les Mis fan."

Lestrade simply squinted at him, confused. "Les Mis?"

"The musical, based on the novel?"

The DI simply shook his head.

"Alright then. So this whole thing is basically everyone going into hiding? That just doesn't seem like a Sherlock thing to do."

A shrug. "I know. But Myc is one-hundred percent sure that Sherlock will follow this plan to the letter."

The doctor scoffed. "Yeah, but he's been wrong before."

The car suddenly came to a screeching halt, each of the doors latching simultaneously.

The already dark tinting on the windows blackened fully, leaving John edgy, his skin itching.

Lestrade placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"We're getting close now. This is a feature to obscure—"

The doctor shrugged him off. "I can figure out what it's for, Greg. I'm not a moron. Mangled and paranoid, maybe, but not stupid."

Lestrade chanced a chuckle, and was met with an eye roll and a reluctant smile.

"You know, all things considered though, it could have been worse."

_**SHSHSHSHSSHSHSH**_

Sherlock was running.

He was running, and they were gaining and his blogger was miles away.

It really couldn't get any worse...


	22. Chapter 22

No sooner had Sherlock ended the call than he realised exactly what he had told his blogger.

I love you.

Why had he said that? What purpose could he possibly have for informing John of a fact that he himself was loathe to recognise?

He heard the voices of his pursuers returning and he forced his bewildered mind to focus on the task at hand.

"—Yea, the boss man wants curlers alive."

The drawling twang of the American accent was offset by another, clearly Southern Welsh Accent. "Didn't say he'd run like a fucking rabbit though."

Sherlock smirked, taking the comment in stride.

He heard one of them prop himself against the skip, the thin sheet metal popping and bending.

"Well, we've lost him. This whole damn country's one huge-ass maze."

The detective rolled his eyes, his leg shaking involuntarily with his awkward crouched position.

"Didja hear that?"

"What that rustlin'?"

Shit.

"Probably just a cat. Stop being so jumpy."

Maybe this won't be-

"We should still check it out to make sure."

Sherlock used the popping of the metal to cover the sound of his shifting.

Bracing himself to—

"What the fuck?"

Sherlock pushed up the lid on the bin, leaping out and rolling as he slammed into the concrete.

He sprung up while the two goons recovered from their shock and bolted forward.

_Right._

Heavy footsteps pounding behind him.

_Left._

Shouts from passerby as he ducked and dodged between them.

_Through Traffic._

Horns blared and tires screeched as a dull thud rang through the detective's ears.

_Yes! One down._

He could still hear another set of footsteps, but didn't dare to glance back.

_Left._

More shouting and whistles blowing as a constable caught sight of the chase.

_That's it._

The thudding increased and another set of whistles sounded.

_A little further._

A heavy thump and a groan as his last pursuer was brought crashing down.

_Yes!_

Sherlock ducked into yet another alleyway, crossing a few more streets before hailing yet another cab.

He climbed in, this time carefully inspecting his cabby before politely giving directions.

"121 Montgomery St Edinburgh, please. I'd rather like this to be a fast trip, if you don't mind. I'm running a bit behind."

There.

Enough manners that even John would be impressed.

"Heading to church then? You look positively knackered, if you don't mind my saying so."

Oh lovely. Small talk.

"Oh, yes, bit of a trying day. I'm just wanting to get home to the Missus."

Sherlock buried the gleeful smirk that sentence brought on.

Oh, he'd absolutely murder me if he knew that I'd said that.

"She a pretty one? Your lass?"

The detective snorted, the humour of the situation not lost. "Hardly. More of the quaint type really. Short. Greying hair and an addiction to tea and jumpers."

The driver smiled warmly in the window, his aged features crinkling.

"Must be one hell of a lay to catch a fella like yourself."

Sherlock hummed. "I honestly consider myself lucky. No one else has ever dared to give me half a chance. Let alone this many."

The cabby nodded again, letting the car fall into a comfortable silence as they drove along.

They finally approached the church to which Sherlock had directed them.

The detective climbed out of the back see before leaning into the window to pay for the ride.

"It's on the house, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock frowned, scanning the man's face once more, utterly taken aback.

"How do you—"

"You're famous, Mr Holmes. I'm a fan of—heh-heh—your Missus's blog. Though I don't think that he'd be too keen on your calling him that."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I'd say not. Tell me, why didn't you mention that you recognized me in the beginning?"

The cabby shrugged. "Like I said. You looked like you'd had one hell of a day. Figured you could use a few moments of anonymity. Though, I weren't expecting to get confirmation on the fact that Doctor Watson and you are shagging."

The detective kept a passive expression, attempting not to allow the situation to get any further out of control. "Hmm. Well." He searched the man yet again, finding little to no information. "I suppose I should thank you for the ride then."

"Oh, don't mention it, anything for—"

Sherlock had walked away then, towards the white stone church where a man was waiting for him.

"Mr Madeleine?"

Sherlock turned, recognizing the name known only to Mycroft's men. "Is everything ready?"

The man nodded, gesturing to the black town car idling at the curb.

The detective walk towards it, once again wary as he opened the door.

His mind was put at ease as he saw Mycroft's assistant sitting in the backseat.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, he had to send a babysitter?"

The woman shook her head, reaching across Sherlock's lap to pull his door closed.

The car lurched forward, pulling back into the stream of traffic.

Sherlock gazed out of the window, his mind effortlessly slipping to contemplate the goings on of the day.

He began with Victor, and his hand in utterly destroying what had been such a pleasant day.

Obviously he had managed to escape police custody, though with his injuries being so severe that Sherlock doubted that he would be ever fully functional, let alone conscious. So this must be some sort of contingency plan on his part.

Right then.

Obviously it involved capturing Sherlock, his goons had confirmed that much.

So that meant it was a method of personal torture, though that would not be very effective when, again, the person administering the torture would not be able to enjoy it.

That narrows it down to the fact that he either must not have calculated on being injured, or this is a plan that could function with or without Victor present.

If that were the case, then clearly the target would be John.

Logically, that plan would progress with the capture of Sherlock and John and the subsequent murder of the doctor in front of Sherlock's eyes.

Easy enough to deduce.

So why did the detective have that niggling feeling that he was missing something?

Some miniscule bit of information.

SOMETHING wasn't right.

Sherlock found his mind leaving the issue of Victor and moving back to the point of John.

Why John?

John was safe with Lestrade, presumably on his way to the safe house, per his instructions.

The detective sat bolt upright, his features frozen as he once again replayed his conversation with his blogger.

I love you.

Well, shit.

The confusion and unanswered questions from earlier swirled back into the forefront of his mind, forcing him to retreat deeper into the depths of his mind palace.

It was completely apparent, upon the examination of the emotional centre of the mind palace, that he had not spoken dishonestly.

Indeed, Sherlock had known for quite a while that he had slipped into love with John Watson.

Slipped, mind, not fallen.

For falling requires taking a risk.

Letting go.

Losing control.

No.

Sherlock Holmes slipped into love.

He snuck around it, examined it.

He spent three years flitting around the edges of it.

He slipped in when it was opportune.

When it was right.

Granted, it did slam into him, though when he caught up with his mind's discovery, he had concurred.

But admitting that to the doctor?

His doctor?

That had been a fall.

A failing.

It was something that he had not intended to admit so suddenly.

Especially under such dubious circumstances.

Sherlock scoffed to himself.

At the very least, it had the effect of ingraining his instructions into John's mind.

So what to do now?

Downplay it?

No.

John would flit around the subject for months.

Letting it fester between them.

Tell him that he was lying?

"Oh, God, no."

Anthea raised an eyebrow at the man who had been previously silent and shook her head.

Own up and suffer the consequences?

Well, it was the most statistically unreliable option.

But with John?

It was the only viable option.

Damn.

Sherlock came back to himself, blinking drearily out of the window as the buildings faded to the country view that he had been awaiting.

They were nearing the safe house.

Which also meant that they were nearing his blogger.

And Sherlock had a hell of a lot of explaining to do.


	23. Chapter 23

John had spent the past two hours intermittently pacing the front room and fidgeting on the couch.

Lestrade had informed him that he was allowed no outside contact, which meant no phone, no laptop, no real distraction from his own thoughts.

_Did Sherlock remember what he had said?_

_Of course he did, you moron, he's Sherlock Holmes._

_Will he mention it?_

_I doubt it._

To be fair, he had attempted to converse with John when they had first arrived, but was only met with aggravated silence.

The Detective Inspector had given up, opting to spend his time exploring the cottage.

The doctor sighed, plopping himself onto the couch with a groan.

He picked up the television remote only to be met with static.

That's right. The appearance of a vicious storm had rendered the rabbit eared connection completely useless.

Just as the doctor had resigned himself to watching the storm whip the trees to and fro from the window, he saw a black state car pull up the drive.

John felt his throat close with anticipation as the mop of black curls appeared from the car door.

It took all of his willpower to calm his nerves and force his body to sit stiffly on the couch, eyes trained on the door.

Sherlock took his time in reaching the door of the cottage, his mind still whirring in an attempt to come up with a solution to his problem.

The biting wind and stinging rain helped to sharpen his thoughts as he trudged forward.

A condemned man walking death row.

He opened the door warily, afraid of exactly what John would say, or Lestrade for that matter.

Instead, he found John perched on the couch, his posture rigid with pain more than anger.

He heard his blogger let out an audible sigh of relief and stand slowly. "Thank god you're alright."

Sherlock cocked his head in confusion, a gesture that the doctor resolutely ignored.

Instead he strode forward and wrapped his arms gingerly around the detective, ignoring the ache in his body and the sting of pressure on his bruises.

The detective hesitantly returned the embrace, his eyes narrowed questioningly.

Lestrade chose that moment to reenter the room, his eyes locking with Sherlock's.

He saw the words unspoken in the detective's eyes and backed silently away, his own message clear.

Fix this.

"John." He pulled fractionally away, regretting the movement as he heard his bloggers sharp intake of breath.

"It's alright, Sherlock. I understand."

The detective stepped back, his hands bracing John's shoulders as he bent to look into his eyes. "Understand what?"

John simply shook his head, pursing his lips slightly. "Nothing." He smiled halfheartedly, eyes going wide as he spoke. "Never mind." He leaned, squeezed the hands on his shoulders, and stepped away. "Just glad to have you back in one piece." His eyes narrowed further and he scanned the detective's body, searching for injuries. "You are in one piece, right? No broken bones, sprains, etcetera?"

Sherlock shook his head, still perplexed by the doctor's behaviour. "John what do—"

The doctor stepped back a little further, interrupting Sherlock once more. "I said never mind."

Sherlock noted the tone filled with warning, a waver.

The way he was subconsciously looking for an escape.

He was holding back.

Afraid.

The detective took yet another step forward and John responded with one more back.

Avoiding further physical contact.

How irritating.

Sherlock's confusion turned to frustration has he growled low in his throat. "John Hamish Watson, would you please stop evading me?"

The doctor froze, his tongue darting out to nervously lick at his split lip.

That did it.

Sherlock lunged forward, pressing himself firmly against the doctor, their lips slamming together.

John yelped in surprise at the sudden onslaught of lips upon his.

His mind blurring between the unanswered questions and the pure sensation.

He pressed into the kiss for a moment, enjoying the feel of Sherlock against him.

The way that they moved together.

How much he had craved this.

But the questions wouldn't stop.

They flew behind his eyes and buzzed in his ears even as his detective grabbed his ass through his bottoms.

He gasped out of the kiss, a soft "Sherlock" falling from his lips.

The detective grinned. "John."

He shook his head, fingers tangling in dark curls even as he spoke. "We need to talk, Sherlock. I don't know what's going on here and—"

Cut off with another kiss. "We can talk about those things later, alright? The only thing—"

A kiss to his lips.

"—that I would like to discuss—"

Another to the doctor's jaw.

"—is how I'm going to make love to you."

John's breath caught in his throat and he pushed away, ignoring the pained expression on his detective's face.

"We—you can't just—that word—"

Sherlock scoffed.

"What? Make love? That's what I'd be doing. I thought that saying 'how I'm going to fuck you in the most emotionally and physically satisfying manner' would be a bit of a mouth full."

John tilted his head, hands in front of him protectively. "Hold on a moment." He shook his head slightly, his eyes closed as he processed the information. "So when you said that you loved me—" He squinted at the detective. "You did say that you loved me, right?"

Sherlock nodded, the back of his neck burning as he waited for the next few words.

_You were serious?_

_Do you actually think I'd love you back?_

_You really expect me to return the sentiment?_

"It wasn't just some psychological device to insure that I'd remember your directions?"

The detective froze, confusion forming on his own features. "Is that what you thought?"

John glanced down, a blush painting his cheeks as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, yeah, I mean, I didn't think that you could—"

Sherlock held his breath.

"You know, feel that. Towards me, I mean."

The detective reached out slightly, paused, and drew his hand back to his side.

"John—"

"I knew that you cared. Know. I know that you care. I just thought that it was a way for you to give me some closure, you know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and surged forward for yet another kiss, this time pouring every ounce of emotion into it that he had in his body.

Once more, they found themselves entwining.

John's fingers buried in soaking wet curls while cold hands pressed against the flesh of his back.

The doctor giggled into the kiss, breaking away yet again to place his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder, his body shaking with laughter.

"What?"

John shook his head, his ears red. "You're soaking wet, you smell like rubbish, we're in a safe house cut off from the outside world because your ex-boyfriend has a hit out on us, I'm nearly crippled, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade is in the room next door, you just admitted to actually loving me, and we're just standing here, snogging like teenagers."

Sherlock broke down chuckling himself, wrapping his arms around the doctor for support.

"To be fair, you're damp now as well."

John smacked the detective's ass playfully. "Shower. Now. I'll get Lestrade out of the room and make sure everything is—" He blushed furiously at the thoughts racing through his mind.

Sherlock kissed him again, chastely. "Fine."

He strode from the room, leaving the doctor to take a deep breath.

"Oh, and Sherlock."

The detective poked his head around the corner.

"When this is, after we—" Another deep breath. "You're going to explain to me exactly what happened."

Sherlock smirked. "Yes, John."

He disappeared once more.

Moments later, there was the sound of something clattering to the ground and a high pitched squeak as Lestrade bolted from the room, his face red and eyes wide.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock Holmes! Fucking warn a bloke!"


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's**** Note: It has arrived lovelies. This is the chapter that you have been awaiting. Smut. Enoy. **

John shook painfully with laughter at the look of pure horror on the inspector's face.

"Oi, what're you laughing at?"

The doctor shook his head, suppressing his laughter into a self-satisfied smirk. "Nothing. Nothing at all, you just saved me some trouble, actually."

Lestrade paused, trying to figure out exactly what the doctor meant.

"How did —"

It was then that he noticed the disheveled state that John was in.

His clothing was askew, his skin flushed, eyes darkened with lust.

The DI groaned, covering his face with his eyes and plopping onto the couch.

"Christ, you two." He fixed John with a disapproving glare. "All of these years of unresolved sexual tension and you have to choose the one time that I'm here with you lot to do something about it." There was annoyance in his tone, but no malice.

The doctor simply shrugged. "Can't be helped."

Lestrade sighed, watching as John shuffled through the kitchen, rummaging through drawers and peeking in cabinets in search of something.

He shook his head in confusion.

"What are you looking for?"

John looked up and his blush deepened. "Well, err, I don't know where the, you know, the—"

"Spit it out, man."

He took a deep breath, straightening his posture and looking above the DI's gaze. A soldier addressing a superior officer. "If you must know, I'm searching for, well, er..." His own gaze fell and he looked away. "Supplies."

The way he stressed the word forced Lestrade to recognize exactly what his friend meant.

"Oh, god. John. Seriously. Christ, it's in the bedroom. Left nightstand, top drawer."

The doctor nodded, heading for the bedroom, when he spun around, eyes narrowed suspiciously at the detective.

"How did you know that?"

It was Lestrade's turn to blush. "Well, umm, a few weeks ago, Myc and I, we were on our vacation and—"

John shook his head, his nose crinkled with disgust. "Jesus, I didn't need to know that. I did not need to know that." He threw his hands up, stepping back into the room.

"You asked."

John started to shut the door. "You could have lied."

Before Lestrade could respond, the door latched, leaving the doctor alone in the room.

He heard the tap switch off in the bathroom and quickly slipped open the drawer, his stomach twisting at the sight of the small bottle and the discrete black box of condoms.

He sat on the edge of the bed gingerly, trying to calm the sudden influx of nerves. This was finally happening. He was finally going to have sex with Sherlock Holmes. The thought absolutely terrified him.

_**SHSHSHSHSH**_

Sherlock stepped out of the shower and dried his hair silently, his gaze settling on the image in the mirror. The first thing that caught his attention were the bruises forming on his arms from collisions with fists and the various obstacles involved in a chase.

John wouldn't be too happy about those, but it was all fairly minor. Especially when compared to the wounds sustained by the doctor himself. That thought caught his breath in his throat and froze him to the spot.

John's injuries.

The detective could have screamed.

He had been so caught up in himself that he had completely disregarded the fact that the doctor must still be in pain. Sherlock sighed, wrapping a towel around his hips and taking a deep breath, steeling himself to simply stop this whole process. To tell his blogger to get some rest.

The moment he opened the door, however, he was faced with a blushing and disheveled John Watson, bottle of lube in one hand, eyes staring guiltily up at him.

"Erm. This, this is—"

The doctor hastily set the bottle on the nightstand, his hands moving to prop him up in a vain attempt at appearing nonchalant.

Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to will away the emotions that were pushing against it.

Closing it off.

"John, you—we—" He coughed, his eyes averting the gaze of his doctor. "This is not—"

John leaned forward, trying to wrap his mind around Sherlock's sudden bashfulness. "Sherlock?"

The detective huffed, his hands running through his still-damp curls as he paced the floor.

The doctor stood slowly, not daring to touch the detective when he's frustrated. "You alright. mate?"

Sherlock looked at him, his expression wild and frantic. Half of him wanted to reach out and grab John. To hold him tight, show him just how much he meant to him. How much he was appreciated.

The other half want to force his blogger to simply rest and forget the whole thing. Just let everything go back to normal.

John saw the tug of war written across Sherlock's face. The indecision bordering on fear. He swallowed his own nerves and stepped forward, stretching his head up to capture the detective's lips with his own.

The kiss was gentle, soft and warm, with none of the desperation and heat of the ones shared previously.

Their touches were light, John's hand on Sherlock's hip, Sherlock's hands wrapped loosely around his blogger's wrists.

It was careful. All the bluster had burnt away, leaving behind the sentiment and passion. Each move was matched and built upon. When Sherlock pressed forward, so did John. When the detective slid his hands slowly from John's wrists up his arms and onto his shoulders, John slid himself closer, pressing them flush together, his own hands wrapping around his genius' back.

Sherlock's fingers twisted in the fabric of John's jumper as he ran his tongue lightly over John's split lip, earning a soft whimper. The detective chuckled low in his throat, pulling away slightly to brush his lips over a healing cut on his doctor's cheek.

"You know, what I was trying to say earlier—" He shifted his weight, fingers sliding down John's back and resting on his ass. "We don't have to do this."

John placed his forehead lightly on Sherlock's shoulder before rolling his head to place a light kiss on Sherlock neck. "And yet, here we are." He took a deep breath, rubbing the edge of the towel between his fingers, the brush of skin sending shivers down Sherlock's spine. He stretched up so that his breath puffed against the shell of the detective's ear. "Do you want to stop?"

Sherlock slid his hands up under John's shirt, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "I think, then, Doctor Watson—"

John blushed furiously at the use of the title.

"That we are unfairly matched at the moment." He tugged at the doctor's shirt to prove a point.

John hesitated, blushing further and stilling against Sherlock. "You sure? I mean I'm not—this is—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I've seen you topless before John, you're not physically unappealing." He pressed himself closer to the doctor, letting him feel just how attracted he was. "Quite the contrary. And if you're commenting on your injuries, I'm fully prepared for the extent of your injuries."

The doctor stepped away from the detective to slowly raised his arms, gritting his teeth against the tightness in his sides as he attempted to remove his jumper. Sherlock shook his head, pressing himself closer to the doctor and peeling the shirt the rest all the way off. John groaned at the strain in his muscles, which sparked an idea in Sherlock.

"John. Get on the bed."

The doctor looked up, a curious expression on his face. "You do realize that I have some idea of what we're doing, right? You don't have to direct me through the whole process."

Sherlock rolled his eyes once more, pressing against John's shoulder. "I want to try something."

The doctor shook his head and laughed lightly. "Alright." He stepped back to the bed, peeling back the covers and sitting on the edge.

"Lay back."

John squinted at the detective, but obliged, swinging his legs up and carefully laying himself down, head resting on the pillow.

Sherlock took a moment to admire the generous bulge in his blogger's sweatpants before he dropped the towel completely and prowled forward, looming over John.

The doctor swallowed thickly, his breath suddenly gone at the sight of Sherlock naked before him. He'd seen most of it before; his flat mate was prone to lying about in little more than a bed sheet. But to be rewarded with the image, whole and uncovered, was breathtaking.

Breathtaking and unbearably arousing.

Before the doctor could voice his complaint, however, Sherlock crawled onto the bed, straddling his hips without letting an inch of them touch.

They simply stared at each other for a moment, eyes darkened and breath growing ragged, before the detective glanced down, taking in the full sight beneath him.

His grazed his fingertips over the dark smattering of bruises that coated his blogger's skin, the light touch more pleasurable than painful.

John squirmed under the touch, the heat and sensation incredible.

Sherlock continued, tracing the shades and tones with tender touches, as if the very act could erase them from his blogger's body. He let his fingers come to the faded pink scar on John's shoulder, trailing his fingers along the fresh bruises that were blossoming around it.

John looked away, trying not to show the tears in his eyes at the tenderness of the gesture.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, John." Sherlock's voice was rough with lust, but warm.

Kind.

John looked back, blinking quickly. "I'm not ashamed Sherlock. It's just—" He shook his head, a giggled rising in his throat. "I'm touched." He raised a hand up and cupped Sherlock's cheek, thumb tracing the cheekbone softly. "It's a very sweet gesture."

The detective seemed repulsed by the thought, his nose crinkling despite his blush. "John, as much as I want this—" He leaned forward, lips hovering over his doctor's, "—and I really want this." A kiss, wet and heated, as they tried to give and take all that they could. Sherlock pulled back, eyes dark, yet serious. "If you're going to be a sap in bed, then I'm leaving."

John laughed, curling his fingers into Sherlock's hair. "You couldn't if you tried." As if to prove a point, Sherlock tried to pull back, and was instead greeted with John's hips grinding up against his own.

His eyes widened in surprise before closing with pleasure, a soft moan falling from his lips. They stayed like that or a moment, simply grinding slowly against each other, Sherlock with his hands braced beside his blogger, while John carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock could feel the light twinge in his abdomen as it tightened and he sat back, taking a shuddering breath to calm himself.

John huffed in frustration, his hands falling reluctantly to his sides. The detective smirked, shuffling back on the bed to where he was between his doctor's legs, fingers trailing circles at the edge of John's waistband. With a mischievous smirk, he hooked his fingers around the cotton, pulling the sweatpants down to leave him in his boxers. Sherlock's boxers, to be precise. The detective's tongue darted out to wet his suddenly dry lips at the sight of his blogger, flushed and straining while wearing his pants.

John grunted, trying to prop himself up on his elbows. No sooner did he finally manage it thn Sherlock palmed him through the boxers, sending him flopping back onto the bed.

"Fuck, Sherlock. Warn a bloke."

The detective chuckled, rubbing his way up John's shaft through the thin silk before toying with the waistband. "You know, that's the second time I've heard that today."

The doctor moaned as Sherlock's fingers brushed against his cock teasingly. "Maybe you should take a hint then."

Sherlock grinned, tugging down the boxers with one hand while the other curled in the course brown hairs on John's lower abdomen. He moved those fingers to trail around the base of his cock, planting open-mouthed kissed on the skin of his hips

The doctor squirmed, trying to get attention where he needed it most. "Come on, Sherlock, quit teasing."

The detective gripped John's hips with his fingertips, pressing gently, his breath puffing against the sensitive skin of his blogger's cock.

John shivered, trying desperately to keep still as Sherlock tortured him. He teased and grazed the engorged flesh, providing no release. Sherlock watched John's face, reveled in the way it screwed up with pleasure. The way the doctor's muscles tensed as he fought to gain some friction.

The detective rubbed the pads of his thumbs against John's hips. The doctor's eyes shot open as Sherlock's lips engulfed him. "Fuck, Sherlock." His breath fell ragged as the detective's talented jaw slid along his shaft, tongue changing pressure, sending waves of pleasure down his spine.

Sherlock moved one of his hands from where it was braced against his doctor's hip to manage the base of John's shaft, sliding in tandem with his lips. John groaned, his head falling back as his muscles spasmed, his body on the brink. It took all of his willpower to raise a hand and gently tug on Sherlock's curls, silently begging for his detective to stop. Sherlock obliged, sliding up at an agonizingly slow pace, an obscene pop resonating through the room as he released his blogger's leaking cock.

"What? Not good enough for you?" It was a teasing phrase; he could clearly see the lust-blown eyes and straining muscles of a man extremely close to the edge.

John glared at him, his hand fumbling beside him to grasp the nearly forgotten lube. "If you want to get any further than you blowing me and then finishing yourself off in the toilet, then you'll quit teasing me and get yourself ready." He tossed the tube at the detective, his order clear.

Sherlock paused, completely surprised and more than a little put off by the change in tone.

John saw this and could have slapped himself. "Shit, I didn't mean to sound like—I'm not. Christ. I'd do it for you, and give you all of the pleasure in the world… and next time I assure you I will, but you've—I'm—"

Oh.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, realising exactly what his doctor meant. He wasn't able to do it. This was time. But there would be a next time.

The detective smiled, moving forward once more to capture John's lips before he snapped open the lid to the tube in his hand, letting the cool gel slide down his fingers. He reached behind himself, back bowing as his fingers rubbed against his entrance. Sherlock's head fell onto John's shoulder with a groan as the first finger pressed in, his sweat damped curls brushing against the doctor's skin.

He moaned, one hand gripping the sheets while the other moved, preparing him, his entire body straddling his blogger's.

John reached between them and gently stroked Sherlock's cock, trying to ease the burn of his stretching muscles. He twisted his face to kiss the top of Sherlock's curls as the detective gasped, his entire body tensing.

"Shhh, I've got you."

Sherlock whimpered, removing his hand to fumble for the slender black box on the nightstand. John rubbed small circles on his detective's back as he grabbed the box, flicking the top open. He quickly ripped open the foil packet with this teeth, shifting in an attempt to roll it over himself. Sherlock chuckled at the struggle, sitting up to aide his doctor.

As soon as the condom was rolled on, he flicked open the bottle of lube once more, drizzling it over his hand and slicking John's cock with it slowly, drawing out the sensation. John shuddered, hands reaching out to grip Sherlock as he attempted to steady himself without touching John. They're fingers intertwined with one hand while John guided himself into Sherlock.

The detective sank down slowly, his head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut against the burn. John gritted his teeth against the urge to buck up into the tight heat, his fingers tightening in tandem with Sherlock's. No words were exchanged when Sherlock was fully seated, one hand holding John's while the other rested on the straining muscles of his thigh.

When he was ready, Sherlock moved, setting a slow rhythm while John stroked is sides with his free hand. Reassuring him. They shared a silent nod that had John bucking his hips up to meet the detective. The pace become more frantic, the movement harder.

John's free hand slid over to grip Sherlock's leaking cock, pumping it in time to their combined thrusts.

Both men felt the heat pooling as they neared their mutual climax. John pushed himself up, pleasure overriding the pain as he wrapped an arm around Sherlock's middle, capturing him in a passionate kiss.

The change in angle sent the detective over the edge, John's name falling from his lips in a whimper as he came.

A few shaking thrusts later saw the doctor reach his own climax, his fingers digging into Sherlock's back while he rode out the waves of his orgasm.

They sat there like that for a moment, clinging to each other and shaking from the intensity of it.

Sherlock rolled away from the doctor, flopping onto his back before John fell backwards.

They lay there, fingers still intertwined, and fell asleep.


	25. Chapter 25

John's eyes cracked open at the sound of tires on gravel.

His first instinct was to reach over and cloy to the object at his side.

The second was to wrap his arms around himself at the overwhelming ache that wracked his body.

He instead went with his third instinct.

"Oh, bloody fucking hell. Sherlock, wake the fuck up and get me something. Jesus, this fucking hurts."

He felt the bed shake as deep, rumbling laughter echoed through the room.

A glass of water and an orange bottle of tablets appeared before his face. "Sit up."

The doctor shook his head, refusing to budge. "No. Sherlock, I will not move from this fucking spot until I can do it without screaming in fucking agony." The detective rolled his eyes, setting the pills and water aside to lean over the grumbling doctor, face mere inches away.

"Do I need to motivate you, Watson?"

John groaned, a hand covering his eyes. "I'm in too much pain for that, Sherlock. And for fuck's sake, don't call me Watson." Sherlock kissed him lightly before hooking his hands around the man's shoulders.

"Shit, would you stop that?" The detective simply ignored him, pulling and shifting him until he was sitting up. He then proceeded to hand the bottle and glass to the doctor, who snatched them out of his hands and downed the contents.

"There, are you better?"

John rolled his eyes. "They're drugs, Sherlock, not fucking magic. Give me ten minutes and I'll be fine." The detective sighed, his eyes turning to the laptop that he had abandoned when John had woken up.

For the first time, the doctor noticed the device, giving a quizzical look to his genius. "Sherlock, when did you get that?"

The detective sighed. "About the same time that I cleaned up the mess we made of ourselves from last night, wriggled you into a pair of pants to give you some of that modesty that you do seem so bent on pretending to have, corrected Lestrade's snoring, got you a glass of water and your medications, and hacked into the secure wireless connection so that I could do some research."

John nodded. "So about an hour ago."

The detective smirked, clicking out of the browser window that he was in and tossing the laptop haphazardly aside. "Basically." He ruffled his hair slightly, the already chaotic curls sticking out wildly. "So, you have questions."

John nodded, pushing himself up a little further on his pillow. "Yes, actually." He turned, propping his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "What the fuck is going on, Sherlock?"

Another sigh, this one accompanied by Sherlock resting his head on top of John's. "Victor. Do you want the long version or the short version?"

John rolled his eyes, nudging the detective playfully. "You're the genius, you tell me."

A deep breath. "It started with that case."

John snorted, giggling helplessly. "Christ, you know how to be dramatic."

The detective pulled his head back, glaring sideways at the doctor. "Do you want to know what's going on or not?"

John took a deep breath, his arm clutching his sides lightly. "Alright mate, Alright."

Sherlock sighed again. "Something was off with those bodies. They were all killed in a way that made it obvious they were not the original target."

He pulled away, spinning around to face John. "It didn't hit me until I was rudely removed from that cab—"

John rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. "Sherlock. You were kicked from a cab for offending the driver. If anything you were the rude—"

"It's not my fault that she was offended by my description of how I was going to debauch you on the couch."

The doctor paused, mouth hanging open. "You think that's what offended her? Sherlock, you said, and I quote, 'go back to your ruminations on how your poor life decisions have ruined your life and the lives of those around you.' "

The detective huffed. "She called me a pretentious little prick."

"Yeah, Afterward." The doctor stifled a giggle at the pout he was receiving. "Fine, you were kicked out of the cab, then what?"

Sherlock nodded, crossing his legs and folding his hands beneath his chin. "Two men charged me in the street."

"Seriously?"

A nod. "I never said that they were bright. Moving, they chased me, we fought, more chasing, they grabbed me, more struggling, I ran some more, hid in a skip—"

The doctor held up a hand. "Hang on, how did you get into a skip?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They chased me across the rooftops so I dove into a bin to hide. Really, John, keep up."

John closed his eyes. "You have, quite literately, mentioned none of that."

"Deduce, John."

The doctor sighed, running his hand over his face. "Fine, fine. A wheelie bin. I'm assuming that this is the point where you ended the phone call."

Sherlock smirked. "Very good, John. That's also when I deduced that they were attempting to capture me alive and—"

"Did you deduce it, or did they say something?" Sherlock frowned, confirming John's suspicions.

"Shut up."

The doctor held his hands up, inviting the detective to continue. "So when I evaded them, which was tedious work, I made my way to a meeting point where Mycroft's people picked me up. And brought me here to be held."

John sighed, running his hands over his face before propping his head on his hands.

"Sherlock, while I know you pride yourself in your story telling, I feel like I've missed a few things."

The detective sighed. "Like what?"

"Like what the fuck is actually going on. Yeah, I get that you were nearly abducted by Victor's goons. Yes, I understand that we're waiting for Mycroft to deal with the danger. But what does Felton's case have to do with any of this? And when can we go home?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I was the target, John. Those murders were a lure to expose me for capture."

John nodded. "The perfect case. What better way is there to get Sherlock Holmes out of hiding?"

Sherlock threw his hands up. "Exactly! But what I still don't understand is why? Why go through all of this trouble?"

The doctor shook his head, sitting up straighter while rubbing his hands on the sheets. "I have no clue. Pure revenge?"

The detective shook his head. "No. No, it has to be something else. Something more. Victor is a vile, filthy, sadistic bastard, but he's not petty. No, there's something else going on."

There was a knock at the door and both heads swiveled to see a rather disturbing sight.

Mycroft Holmes, his hair disheveled, face covered in scruff.

The most disturbing sight, however, was not the kiss-stained lips or blushing cheeks, but the fact that the posh politician was wearing a t-shirt and jeans.

John rubbed his eyes, blinking a few times before glancing at an equally as disbelieving Sherlock.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame. "It appears that I've spent all night securing two statues."

John shook himself slightly. "Does that mean that we're alright to leave?"

Both Holmes sighed, fixing him with a disappointed scowl.

"No, Doctor Watson, it means that you're safe here. Victor Trevor has gone to ground, though local authorities apprehended two men that are believed to be in connection with him. One is in critical condition after being hit by a car."

Sherlock smirked, pleased with the summary. "So now you and Lestrade can sod off."

Mycroft smirked, quirking his eyebrow at his brother. "As much as we'd all prefer to leave you two here in a Honeymoon Cottage, we are all going to be staying here until the issue is resolved."

The detective glanced at a blushing John before standing next to the bed. "Well, then Mycroft, I'm glad that you've sought fit to inform of us this. Thank you for your input." He stepped forward, slamming the door in his brother's face.


	26. Chapter 26

The muffled sound of Mycroft's voice filtered from behind the door. "Sherlock. Open the door. Stop being so childish."

Sherlock shrugged, flicking the lock on the door before turning back to his doctor. He ruffled his hair before glancing at the window, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "It appears that we need to find an escape route."

John gaped at the detective. "What on earth do you mean? Escape?"

The detective rolled his eyes. "We're trapped in a cottage with Mycroft and Lestrade, John."

"Sherlock, we're in a safe house. The whole bloody point is to stay here!"

Sherlock examined the window, trying to find a point of weakness that would allow him to open the secure latches. "John, can you hand me the knife from under the mattress?"

John rolled his eyes, leaning over and fishing under the mattress. His hands came to rest not on the hilt of a knife, but on the cool handle of a gun.

The door knob jiggled. "Sherlock, I think that Mycroft can hear you."

The detective huffed. "Let him make a fuss. We are in a private area near the shore. And his security team is patrolling a thirty kilometre radius. We're fine, John."

John bit his lip, pulling out the gun before fishing for the knife. "Honestly, I'm more disturbed by the fact that I slept in a bed that's apparently stocked with a bloody arsenal between the sheets than the fact that you're considering actually going outside in the middle of being locked down."

Sherlock smirked, striding over and taking the knife from the doctor before moving to slide it along the inside edge of the window sill.

"You know that you're not getting out that way, right? Those windows are probably linked to alarms and monitors," John mentioned.

The detective continued fiddling with the window.

"We could just ask if you're that damn determined to go outside."

He turned to look back at the doctor, his expression completely stoic. "We can't fuck on the beach with Mycroft's security men surrounding us, now can we?"

John's mouth went dry and he blinked a few times, trying desperately to clear his mind of the image of Sherlock on his knees in the sand, the wind whipping his curls while his head bobbed back and forth. While John himself leaned against a boulder.

An enthusiastic 'yes' from the other side of the room drew his attention back to reality. Sherlock must've gotten the window unlocked. This was confirmed when he turned, a mischievous smirk on his lips, and said, "Quick, John, get dressed, we're going for a walk."

Despite the warning bells ringing in his head, the doctor stood, quickly rummaging through the dresser and struggling into a pair of loose trousers and a jumper.

Well.

He attempted to struggle.

After a few moments of thrashing about aimlessly and muttering curses, he sighed.

"For fuck's sake. Sherlock."

The detective sighed, striding over and expertly arranging the article of clothing onto his blogger, who then attempted to cross his arms in a poor approximation of his usual angered stance. "Look. As much as I fancy a shag on the beach, there are a few things going against it."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, leaning against the wall. "And what would those things be?"

John ran a hand wearily over his face as he settled himself back onto the edge of the bed. "Well, for one thing, we're on a security lockdown in a safe house because your lunatic, well, whatever the fuck you want to call him, has apparently got hit men out to kill you. I'm still in a fair amount of pain from him, you know, torturing me. And to top all of that off, we haven't even got shoes."

The detective sighed, fishing under the bed until he retrieved two pairs of boots that had been stored there. "Put these on."

The doctor sighed, gingerly tugging on the boots, though still glaring reproachfully at the detective. "This isn't a good idea, Sherlock."

He simply rolled his eyes, pulling on his own pair of boots and guiding his blogger to his feet. "If security is still an issue to you, then grab the gun that you found stashed under the mattress. But I'm not going to remain a prisoner in my brother's company all day, and escaping'd be no fun at all without my blogger."

John huffed a sigh, retrieving the weapon from its place, checking the clip and double checking the safety mechanism before tucking it into the waistband of his trousers.

"Are you satisfied now, or are you just going to stand there and glare?" Sherlock asked in a bored voice.

John shook his head, reluctantly following the detective out of the cottage window and into the muddy path below. A move that he instantly regretted, as the biting wind went through his jumper, stinging his bruised skin.

"Sherlock's, it's too damn cold, I'm going back in—" He spun around, his eyes scanning for the detective. "Sherlock?"

Faintly, in the distance he heard a response. "Come on!"

He saw a figure waving at him some distance away and huffed, trudging through the muck and down the incline to where his detective was standing, staring at the churning sea. "How'd you get down here so quickly?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, leaning against a boulder that was half buried in the sand. "I walked, John. You're insufferably slow."

John sighed. "I'd like to see you run with cracked ribs."

Another eye roll, this time accompanied by a sigh. "You're slow all the time, John. Honestly, I don't know how you've ever kept up with me at all."

The doctor crossed his arms and glared pointedly at his detective. "And how many times have I showed up in the nick of time to save you?"

Sherlock froze before waving his hand in the air. "Irrelevant."

John smirked. "That's what I thought. Now. Why are we on the beach?"

"I thought that I made my intentions quite clear."

The doctor blushed slightly. "You did, but I thought that was just a ploy to get me to follow you."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "John, I never joke when it comes to sex, for one thing. And also, you'd have followed me with no prompting at all."

John shifted his weight, moving to argue, before stepping back. "Fine. At least hurry up, will you? It's freezing out here."

The detective smirked, stepping forward and entwining his hand with the doctor's. It was such an unexpected and foreign thing that John simply stared down at it, processing. Sherlock surged forward, tugging his blogger along with him—as well as drawing him back to reality.

_**SHSHSHSHSHSH**_

Unbeknownst to the two men on the beach, a figure was watching from his perch in the cliff-side.


End file.
